Perhaps she could use that against him. Maybe she could turn this situation about so that the advantage was hers. Maybe she could bring him to his knees after all. Not today, it was certain. But one day soon. Wherever they were, wherever he had brought her, it was not prison. Instead, it appeared to be a regular home attended by servants. Which meant all was not yet lost for her.
Escape remained possible.
“I give in,” she conceded, knowing it was for her own cause. That was the sole reason why such a surrender was acceptable. It was either do what he wanted, or deny him, lose her bath, and continue on her way to prison when she was well enough. This was her best chance to regain her freedom. Her only chance. Cullen needed her. “Bathe me if you would like.”
The words felt wrong as she said them, leaving her tongue like a leaden weight. But they also did strange things to the rest of her body. A fluttering began in her belly, and it had less to do with hunger than with the knowledge the Duke of Carlisle was going to attend to her in most intimate fashion.
His jaw tightened, the only sign he had even heard her words. Instead of answering her, he returned them to their initial position, by the bath, Bridget still in his arms. Slowly, he lowered her to her feet. “Steady now. Hold on to me if you lose your balance or feel weak.”
He withdrew his wicked-looking shiny blade and brought it toward her. She flinched, uncertain of what to expect from this dangerous, enigmatic man. He plucked the sleeves of her chemise one at a time and laid the knife to them, cutting them with ease.
“This is my best chemise,” she protested as it fell away in a silken rush of sound, dropping to the carpet at her feet.
“Not any longer,” he said, but his voice had changed. Thickened.
She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes to find him examining her frankly, his eyes hot and consuming. Bridget remained still beneath his searing perusal. Even had she wanted to cover herself, she could not have done so given her bound wrists. Whether it was the strangeness of their situation or the lingering effects of her wounding, she could not say, but she stood before him boldly, not a hint of embarrassment.
She had been reduced to a body of demands and wants, stripped of her garments and her dignity both. And if she did not take care, she would suffer further depravations, not just at the hands of the Duke of Carlisle, but of her jailers when he delivered her to prison.
She shivered at the notion. “I am cold, Your Grace.”
“Into the bath with you,” he said gruffly, flicking his gaze away from her body at last. His expression remained as rigid and unreadable as ever. “The water will warm you.”
Lifting her back in his arms, he hauled her up and lowered her gently, almost deferentially, into the bath. Hot water licked at her bare skin, and she could not quite squelch the moan of appreciation that rose in her throat. It emerged from her. His eyes darkened, fastening hungrily upon hers.
“You are warm now, yes?” he asked.
He had forgotten to mockingly call her prisoner, and for a beat, the intimacy of the moment pulsed between them, terrifying and tempting all at once. She was naked, and he towered over her, an enemy she could not dare trust. Bridget felt strange, her body soothed by the languid pull of relaxation, the sweet-scented water dredging her aches. Beneath it all, there simmered the remembrance that this was no ordinary encounter. He was her captor, and they stood on opposite lines in this unspoken war.
“Warm enough,” she responded grudgingly. “Will you not free my hands whilst I am at my bath? You have my word I shall not cause a moment of trouble.”
He raised an imperious brow. “Madam, you are nothing but trouble, and your word means less than nothing to me.”
She supposed she had earned such a reaction. Very well. She would wash herself as best she could manage with her bound hands and painful arm. She winced as she extended her arms and fiery agony tore through her. “Soap, if you please.”
But instead of handing her the bar as she supposed he might, he ran it over her skin himself. Beginning with her back and shoulders. Then her arms, carefully avoiding her bandaged wound, before swirling over her breasts. Bridget knew she ought to protest against his ministrations, but her wounding and subsequent illness had sucked all the fight from her. She had neither the strength of muscle nor the strength of will to defend herself.
And so, she sat still as the Duke of Carlisle washed her quickly and impersonally, as if she were a small child. He seemed to take great care in avoiding touching her directly. He soaped her breasts beneath the water, and she could not quell the reaction it provoked in her, a desperate ache and the sudden puckering of her nipples in spite of her body’s general weariness. Biting her lip, she averted her gaze away from him. Her response to him was the same as it had been the day she had first set eyes upon him at Harlton Hall, knowing full well who he was, and it remained every bit as unwanted.
He made quick work of her breasts, then withdrew the soap.
She flushed. “If you please, I would like to finish the rest myself.”
“No.” His tone was clipped. Abrupt.
This man had no mercy for her, and though she supposed she had earned none, her cheeks burned nonetheless. “Please.”
She could not bear the thought of him cleaning her elsewhere. Her breasts had been intimate enough. But the rest of her…it was out of the question. Surely no gentleman would force such a thing upon her.
“Tell me what I want to know, and perhaps I shall,” he relented.
Her gaze swung to his, and her flush deepened when she realized he had begun to roll up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. For a beat, her breath caught upon the sight, so masculine. Also intimate, laden with both his intent and the silent tension budding between them.
“What do you want to know?”
“How long have you been in London?” he asked calmly, his eyes never wavering from hers.
“I have not been in London at all,” she forced herself to say. “I was lately at Edgware, in service to the Earl of Chalmsford.”
