“For today,” she agreed softly, dipping the cloth in the water before trailing it over the arm nearest her.
A companionable silence fell, interrupted only by the gentle slosh of the water. She took to her task with more pleasure than she would have admitted. Over his skin she traveled, in motions meant to soothe as much as cleanse. She lathered his arms and chest in soap. His neck, his shoulders. With each pass of the cloth over him, an answering lick of fire burned in her belly. He was so beautiful. So vulnerable to her. The combination was heady. The ridiculous urge to press her lips to his throat would not leave her.
“You sang to me.” The sudden timbre of his voice gave her a start. “When I was with fever.”
She glanced up to find him watching her with a heavy-lidded stare. Her cheeks went hot with the combined shame of being caught ogling him and being caught warbling when she had supposed he could not hear.
She cleared her throat, turning her attention back to soaping his shoulder. “Forgive me for subjecting you to the torture of my lamentable singing.”
“Your voice…it’s beautiful.”
Bridget met his gaze once more. It was certainly not what she had expected him to say. She enjoyed singing to herself, but she had never sung for anyone else. Not even Cullen. Not her mother. No one.
Except for the Duke of Carlisle.
But her voice was not beautiful, and she knew it. “You need not say so out of a sense of obligation.” She returned her attention to his chest, wishing it were not quite so magnificent.
“Nonsense,” his voice was gruff velvet to her senses. “I would not say so unless it were true. Your singing is lovely. I was hoping, in the interest of our truce, I could convince you to sing for me again now.”
Her stomach clenched at the notion. “I am afraid I cannot, Duke.”
“Leo,” he corrected, his tone warm. Almost flirtatious. It reminded her of the first night they had met, before he had realized they were bitter enemies. “Also on account of the truce.”
She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. She was thawing toward him. Softening and weakening. Feeling emotions she had no right to feel. And yet, she was helpless to stop it.
“Very well,” she allowed, in spite of herself. “Tonight, you shall be Leo, and I shall be Bridget. Tomorrow, we can return to the opposite sides of the battlefield.”
“Bridget.”
She liked the way his lips moved when he said her name. Liked the sound of it in his crisp accent and deep baritone. Liked it far, far too much. She bit her lip to keep from smiling and turned her attention back to her task. “Leo.”
“Yes.” His eyes had closed once more. “I like the sound of that. Sing for me now, Bridget. Please.”
Somehow, singing for him whilst his lids were lowered and he was not pinning her to her chair with that dark, consuming gaze of his, seemed easier. Possible. She soaped his right shoulder and biceps, and then the lyrics were flowing, the melody humming around them. The song she sang was one of her favorites, a haunting tune from the days of Napoleon,The Bonny Light Horseman.
She washed him as the ballad filled the air around them, soaping and rinsing, rinsing and soaping, admiring his firm flesh, all the ways his body was so different from hers, singing as she went. “‘And the dove she laments for her mate as she flies. ‘Oh, where, tell me where is my true love?’ she sighs. ‘And where in this wide world is there one to compare with my bonny light horseman who was killed in the war?’”
When she reached the haunting final verse, the chamber was filled with such stillness, she flushed all over again. She rinsed the last of the suds from his chest and arms. “There you are. All clean.”
His eyes opened, burning with warmth. “That was stunning, Bridget.”
Bridget, he had said. Not banshee. Not madam. Not Miss O’Malley.
ButBridget.
Before she could say anything, his hand caught hers, the grip firm and strong. “You’restunning.”
An indescribable sensation rocketed through her, exploding like a blossom of fireworks against the ink of an evening sky. For a beat, she could not move. Could not look away from him. Her heart thudded with such tenacity she swore she could hear it. Perhaps he could as well. Their wet fingers tangled, a simple connection, and yet, the lone gesture signified so much.
She had never felt the need to hold on to another person’s hand more.
She didn’t want to let go.
Ever.
As soon as the thought entered her mind, she chased it away, reminding herself she would let go. She had to. She hadn’t a choice. Cullen could only be extricated from prison by foul means, and even if she trusted the duke enough to unburden herself to him, the only means he would offer by way of assistance—indeed, if he could offer any at all—would be fair. Fair would not work for an Irish lad with a mountain of false evidence against him. Only foul would, and for foul, she required John.
A tremor passed over her. She withdrew her hand, then fussed with the pitcher she would use to pour over his hair to wet it so she could work the shampoo through the thick, dark strands.
