The banshee actually clucked her tongue at him. “The doctor was clear you are to have liquids only when you first wake. You need to follow his orders or risk sacrificing your health. I have already had reports from the domestics that you spend entire days without sleeping. Little wonder you took ill. Moreover, you know as well as I your French chef would never serve boiled potatoes.”
Grim disbelief swept through him. The woman had been consulting his physician concerning his illness and recovery? And she had interrogated his servants about his lack of slumber? That was to say nothing of the comment concerning Monsieur Brodeur, which was utterly accurate.
He could not like this. It was as if she had settled in. Made herself at home.
It was as if she were his wife in truth rather than in name only.
“I do not want broth, madam,” he bit out, aware he sounded stubborn. Perhaps even childish. Not caring a whit. He wanted something fortifying. He was already mending. He had neither the time nor the inclination to be an invalid.
Her eyes glinted as they bored into his, and he swore the wench was enjoying this moment of role reversal between them.
“You will have broth or nothing. And afterward, you shall bathe. You stink, Duke.”
Here too were words he had spoken to her before. But she was also not incorrect in her assessment, and he was willing to sip broth like a consumption patient and bathe if he could have what he wanted most in return. “Very well. I shall have the broth and the bath, but I must insist upon one condition.”
She raised a brow. “Name your condition.”
If she wanted to truly play at a reversal of roles, he was more than willing, regardless of how much he knew he should not. He met her stare with an unflinching one of his own. “I want you to bathe me.”
The bath inthe bathing chamber adjoining the ducal apartments had been prepared. It was warm and sweetly orange-scented, humid air clinging to her lungs as Bridget inhaled. The massive tub was empty, but that was a problem which would be remedied soon enough when she helped the duke into it.
The thought should not fill her with such trepidation, but it did. It plagued her with the repetitive tenacity of a small child asking his mother an endless barrage of questions. Cullen had been no different with her as a lad. She could still hear his little voice now.
Why is the sky blue, Bridget? What is the sky made of?
She loved her brother. Needed to help him to escape from Kilmainham by whatever means she could, and she must not forget that.
Where do clouds go when the moon is out, Bridget? Why do our feet stop growing when we get old?
“Why indeed,” she grumbled to herself, her eyes stuck upon the steaming tub, knowing what it represented.
She was going to see the Duke of Carlisle.
Naked.
She was going to lay her hands upon his bare flesh. Stroke his corded shoulders and strong arms with a soap-laden cloth. Trail suds over his chest. Dip her hand beneath the slick warmth of the water. Run the cloth…elsewhere.
Another why plagued her then: why had she agreed to such madness? Why had she remained at Blayton House, tending to the Duke of Carlisle for two days, when she could have fled and been long gone from his reach?
She tried to tell herself it was in Cullen’s best interest if she stayed, gleaned as much information as she could, and used her evidence as a means to bargain with John and gain her brother’s freedom. But the truth of it was, Bridget had stayed on because she had wanted to.
There it was. Shameful and wicked and wrong. A betrayal of her own flesh and blood. Of everything she stood for. She could admit it to herself, own her ignominy.
“I am ready, wife.”
She gave a start at the resonant voice, rumbling with heat and mystery and power, even though he was scarcely recovered from the illness he’d suffered. Bridget turned to find he had walked to the bathing chamber unassisted.
He wore a dressing gown belted loosely at his waist, a vee of beautiful chest bared to her wandering gaze. Beneath its hem, his calves were strong, his feet large, yet surprisingly elegant for a man of his immense size. He was pale, his dark hair in need of a sound washing, his jaw shadowed by the potent masculinity of his whiskers. Although he had been ill for two whole days, not even the sickness that had ravaged him could detract from his appearance.
She strove to keep her countenance an expressionless mask. “You should have called for me, Duke. I would have assisted you.”
“You would have assisted me with one hand, and a sharpened knife clutched in the other behind your back, yes?” he asked.
She flinched at the question. “If I had wanted you dead, English, I would have had ample time to accomplish it. Instead, I nursed you through your illness.”
“Fair enough, banshee,” he returned, his eyes assessing. “Forgive my attempts at being droll. It requires an old, unpracticed muscle. But I am not so weak that I cannot reach the tub on my own strength, though I thank you for the offer.”
He came toward her then. Not in the stalking, thunderous manner he often possessed, but slowly, taking each step with care. He came near enough to touch, and then his long fingers were upon the loose knot keeping his dressing gown in place.
