She knew she ought to look away, to grant him privacy. Or perhaps to exercise her own sense of modesty. But she feared, where he was concerned, she had none. And she could not wrest her gaze from him as the knot opened. He turned, presenting her with his back, and then the dressing gown gaped. The twain ends of the belt dangled at his sides. One shrug of his broad shoulders, and the entire garment slipped away from him.
It pooled on the floor, forgotten.
A gasp tore from her before she could quell it.Lord in heaven, the man was a masterpiece. No sculptor could have carved a more perfect work of art from marble. His legs were long and strong, his bottom high and taut. She had never imagined that particular part of a man could be a thing of beauty, but on him it was. His back too was magnificent, muscled and lean at his waist, leading to broad shoulders. He moved his arms, stretching, and the thick cords in his shoulders and arms flexed. Here was the evidence of his well-honed power.
She could not speak a word. Her mouth went dry.
Slowly, he stepped over the rim of the tub and lowered his body into the water, letting out a guttural groan of pleasure as the warmth washed over him. That gorgeous, masculine sound echoed between her thighs where she felt aching and heavy and wet. Even her nipples hardened beneath her corset.
Bridget had just seen the Duke of Carlisle naked.
She had seen his arse.
Beneath the water, he remained utterly, deliciously nude. And now she would have to touch him. To bathe him.
How would she manage it?
She felt as if she were about to swoon, and Bridget O’Malley did not swoon. Not ever. Perhaps it was the consequence of witnessing her first entirely nude man.
The back of him, anyway. He had kept his front to himself, and she had to admit a stab of disappointment at the denial, along with a flush of curiosity. Though she was a virgin, a lass who grew up in the stews of Dublin, then went on to become a shop girl in London, she had known her fair share of amorous-minded gents. She was no stranger to the ways of the world.
She had been kissed and wooed and groped. Her skirts had been raised. When she had been sixteen, she had allowed Thomas Muldoon to stroke her in her nether regions, and when her mother had discovered what she’d done, her ears had received a sound boxing.
Other boys and men, both before and after Thomas, had made attempts. She had rebuffed most, allowed kisses from a scant few. No one—not one single man—had ever had the same undeniable pull as the Duke of Carlisle. He robbed her of the desire to want anyone other than him.
“Plotting my murder, banshee?” he asked, draping his arms over the lip of the tub, sending fat water droplets dripping to the tiled floor. His dark head leaned back. He sounded as weary as he must be, after having taken so ill over the past two days.
The intimacy of the scene—him in his bath, his skin bare and glistening with the kiss of warm water, steam swirling around them, the decadent scent of citrus and musk perfuming the air—conspired against her. Made her forget why she must never allow herself to feel even a hint of feelings for him.
Too late, crowed her heart.
“Not your murder,” she forced herself to say, taking up the soap and cloth left by his manservant when he had readied the bath. “But perhaps revenge.” She had not forgotten he had allowed her to dip beneath the water when he had been helping her to bathe.
“It is in poor taste to exact revenge upon a man who has just been ill,” he protested.
She rounded the tub and realized his eyes were closed.
Did he trust her that implicitly already, or had the sickness sapped him of all caution?
She could not be certain, but either way, warmth unfurled within her as she stared at him. His brow was smooth, lips slightly parted, and even his jaw, ordinarily tense and sharp, appeared relaxed. She liked this side of him. He seemed more…human somehow. Less a god of war and more a simple man.
But she must not allow herself to get caught up in such confounding thoughts. “Surely it is not in any more poor taste than attempting to drown a woman you have already shot,” she said drily, seating herself on a small chair alongside the tub left there for just such a purpose.
“There was good reason for both of those actions,” he said, eyes still remaining closed. “Though you may rest assured that when I shot you, I only intended to disarm you, and when I dunked you in the tub, I only wanted you to answer my questions.”
She rolled back her sleeves one by one, knowing the water would eventually grow cold, and she could only delay the inevitable for so long. The soap and cloth sat in her lap, mocking her. “Iwasanswering your questions, as I recall.”
“Ah, banshee. I am too tired to argue with you. Tomorrow, we shall return to daggers drawn, but for today do you think we might call a temporary truce?”
Something inside her had become hopelessly addled, for she liked that sobriquet on his tongue, referring to her.Banshee.She admired the strong column of his throat, the delineation of his Adam’s apple, the sulky pout of his mouth.
How could she ever call a truce with this man?
How could she not?
Just one day, whispered her heart.What could be the harm?
Tomorrow, she could worry about vengeance and Cullen and the unseen war being waged all around them. Tomorrow, she could recall an illegitimate Irish shop girl, with a brother in gaol and more ties to the most dangerous ring of Fenian plotters than she cared to count, must never, ever allow herself to soften for the enemy.
