“Would you just scrub yourdustoff and get out so we can go?”
She slipped deeper into the tub. Water lapped at her lips as she smiled a contented smile. “I am not scrubbing. I am macerating.”
He stopped pacing. What had she said she was doing? Had he heard her correctly? Surely she wasn’t doingthat!But maybe she was, he mused, a rakish smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Hehaddone some rather sensuous things to her this morning. The effect he’d had on her had most likely stayed with her.
Yes, plagued with unfulfilled desire, she now had no choice but to resort to what she was doing behind that sheet.
“Mr. Montana, did you hear what I said?”
“I heard. How does it feel?”
“Oh, it feels divine. It’s a pleasure that I would like to continue feeling forever.”
In an effort to loosen them, Roman pulled at his pants, which were becoming rather snug due to the desire brought to life by the thought of Theodosia’s sensual activity. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Oh? Do you enjoy macerating, too, Mr. Montana?”
“What? Uh…”
“Of course, one cannot truly indulge in the pleasure of macerating forever,” she rambled on, trailing her warm, wet fingers across her face. “One would wrinkle terribly.”
“Wrinkle?” He took a moment to think. “I’ve heard of going insane, blind, or growing hair on the palm of your hand, but I’ve never heard the one about wrinkling.”
Theodosia frowned suddenly. “Who told you that to soften by soaking would cause insanity, blindness, and hair growth?”
Roman stared at the sheet. “Soften by soaking?”
“To macerate is to soften by soaking, Mr. Montana. What did you think I said?”
“I…” He raked his fingers through his hair again. Damn the woman and her almighty vocabulary! “That’s enough soaking and softening! You’ve got exactly three seconds to get out of that tub. Take any longer than that, and I’ll come get you out myself. And if I have to do that, Miss Worth, I promise you that I will finish what I started this morning.”
His vow made her light-headed with a curious combination of fear and excitement. Her eyes riveted to the sheet, she wondered if he would really do what he said he would.
“All right, here I come,” Roman called. He ran his hands over the sheet, causing it to ruffle.
Theodosia nearly drowned herself in her haste to get out of the tub. “I’m out, Mr. Montana, and will be dressed and ready for the fair in only a few more moments.”
Her “few more moments” turned out to be closer to an hour. By the time she finally stepped out from behind the sheet, Roman swore his empty stomach had shriveled into a dried-up knot of nothingness.
“Well, I don’t sew often, but I did a fine job on that shirt,” Theodosia said when she looked at him. “Even if I do say so myself.”
“Shirt? What—’’
“The shirt you are wearing. I mended the rip in the sleeve. You do remember that the sleeve was torn, do you not? When we got to the room, you emptied your bags on the bed and left to see to the horses. While you were gone, I began putting your things away and found that shirt. I mended it for you.
Slowly, he raised his arm and looked at his sleeve. At the sight of the delicate stitches that closed the tear, he forgot his empty stomach.
Her caring gesture fed another sort of hunger. Indeed, he felt as if some deep void inside him had begun to fill.
“My sewing doesn’t meet with your approval?” Theodosia asked after a long moment of watching him stare at his sleeve.
He lifted his gaze and met hers. “It’s fine,” he said softly. His brows rose in surprise when he heard the thick emotion in his own voice and realized Theodosia had heard it, too. Ah, hell, he thought. If he didn’t do something fast, she’d start that psychological probing of hers, forcing him to talk about things he wanted left buried.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he cleared his throat and gave her a good glare. “We’re wasting time standing here talking about a stupid tear in my sleeve and the unmatched sewing skills that fixed it! Now, for God’s sake, let’s go!”
She studied him carefully. “What, may I ask, brought about your tonitruous mood, Mr. Montana?”
“Of course youmayask, Miss Worth. The problem, though, is that I don’t know what the hell tittirons means, so I can’t tell you what—”
