His jaw tensed. “I warned you against lying to me, did I not?”
Yes, he had. She tipped up her chin, facing him defiantly, though it required all the strength she had left. “I am not lying.”
A slow smile curved his beautiful lips. “You are lying, and we both know it. Time for the rest of your bath, prisoner.”
He retrieved the soap, which smelled, it belatedly occurred to her, of him: warm, manly notes of ambergris and something earthy, yet clean. Now even her skin would remind her of him. Of this moment of ignominy that somehow seemed less humiliating as she watched his capable fingers wrap around the soap before disappearing beneath the water.
Keeping his strokes measured and quick, he worked the bar over her feet first, moving his way to her ankles and calves. She held her breath, heat rising once more in her cheeks. In her blood. Blossoming inside her. No one had ever performed such a personal ministration upon her, not since she had been a girl, and even then it had been nothing but a wash basin and a cloth by the kitchen stove for warmth. Her mother had not been able to afford the luxury of a deep tub such as this one.
When he reached her thighs, she clamped them together, denying him access to the most vulnerable part of her. Even if it was the part of her that cried out the most for his touch. He stilled, glancing up at her.
His face was granite hewn. Immovable. “Open.”
Her skin was aflame. She stared into the impenetrable depths of his dark gaze. “No.”
“Madam, I would prefer not to make you submit. I do not like this any more than you, but it is a necessity.” As usual, his tone brooked no opposition.
“Cut my bonds.”
“That is out of the question. You have already demonstrated you are dangerous and untrustworthy.” His other hand disappeared beneath the water, gripping her knee. “I shall repeat. You can open and allow me to cleanse you properly, or I will make you. The choice is yours.”
She closed her eyes against the sight of him, so strong and vital and handsome, his hands in her bath. But still she could feel his touch. He would not be shut out completely. The Duke of Carlisle was too great a force for that. She was tired and drained, and her arm ached. She was at his mercy, with no one she could trust and nowhere to go. What choice had she?
Once more, she gave in, allowing him to guide her legs apart. Allowing him to swiftly pass the soap over her nether regions. Even when he had finished and his touch was gone, she felt him. She felt him like a brand.
Attempting to maintain her composure, she remained still, eyes closed. His fingers were in her hair then, undoing the braid someone had plaited it into during her illness. Fingertips worked over her scalp. Again, he was more tender than she would have imagined, and she could not squelch the soft sigh that escaped her as he massaged her aching scalp, made her hair wet, and worked suds into it.
When he guided her head back to the inviting warmth of the water, she did not even protest. She lay limply, at his command, allowing him to do with her what he wished just as long as it meant his knowing fingers could continue their magic.
She would allow herself to be suspended from time and reality just this once.
It didn’t matter who he was, not when he washed her hair with the gentle concern of a lover.
He was amonster.
That was the only explanation for the painful cockstand he was currently sporting.
That was the only reason why the sight of his willful Fenian prisoner, wrists bound before her, body at his mercy, breasts on display as they rose above the water when he guided her head back, made him harder than he had ever been. Harder than a marble bust. That was why he could not stop devouring her with his sweeping gaze that took in all of her, as much of her as he could at once. Her nipples were the pink of a new rose. They jutted forward like offerings, begging for a tongue. He had no business looking at her or lusting after her.
She was his prisoner. His enemy. Strike that. Not just his enemy, but a dangerous one he would see clapped into prison when he was finished with her. One he would need to use every weapon in his admittedly vast arsenal against. Every mind trick, every manipulation, each show of force he had been taught—he would employ them all against her. Anything to get what he needed. To prove her guilt and the guilt of those conspiring along with her.
To send them all to jail where they so richly deserved to be.
And yet, when his instinct called upon him to be harsh with her, to use force, to push her to the brink however he must in order to gain the knowledge she withheld from him, he found himself being gentle instead. He worked soap into her scalp, rewarded by the breathy sighs from her lips.
Lips that were the same lush pink as her nipples.
Damn it, he was staring at her nipples again, washing her hair as if he were her servant. Or as if she were his mistress. It struck him then, like a lightning bolt, she was the only woman he had ever tended to so intimately. He wondered now why he never had, for the act of cleansing the Irish hellion in the tub filled him with a deep sense of gratification.
It was not the woman, he reminded himself, but the action. She was a desirable female. Her breasts were lush, full, and high, her waist narrow, her limbs curved and petite, her bottom full, her mouth kissable, her…
Fuck.
He was doing himself no favors.
“Time to rinse,” he ordered in a gravelly tone, guiding her so that her hair was submerged in the tub, the only portion of her protruding from the water her lovely, pale face. Her eyes were still closed, and he ran his hand through the silken strands, using his fingers to comb out the tangles, until no trace of suds remained.
“Your true name, madam,” he pressed, taking advantage of the moment.
