He lifted his head to look at her, and though she’d caused him pain, there was also relief in his eyes.
“You’re safe now,” she whispered. “It will be all right.”
But the way he was looking at her made her feel vulnerable. She didn’t understand the needs hidden behind his eyes or what he was thinking.
“I’ll leave you to bathe,” she whispered. “If you want, I can send Bram back to help you.”
He shook his head, returning to the bench. Though he said not a word, he rested his forearms upon his legs, lowering his head. Exhaustion weighted him down, and she didn’t like the look of the half-healed wounds upon his back. He was thin, his ribs revealed in the torch light. But his arms held a wiry strength, his muscles well-defined.
“Or would you rather I stayed to help you?” she blurted out.
Heaven only knew what provoked her to make the offer. Although she’d assisted her father’s guests with their baths in the past, there had always been several servants in attendance. It was an expected duty, and she’d thought little of it.
But the prospect of seeing this man naked made her feel breathless, almost anticipating something that would never happen.
Callum stood up and raised questioning eyes to her. Marguerite held still, trying to feign a calmness she didn’t feel. Her mind was ordering her to leave, for to stay meant far more than tending his wounds. She was a maiden, untouched and innocent.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “If you need me, I’ll stay.”
When he turned his back, reaching to untie his trews, she quickly averted her gaze.
The water had grown cooler, but it was like sharp blades cutting into his back. Callum sat in the wooden tub with his knees drawn up, wincing at the burning sensation.
He should have sent Marguerite away. Letting her see him like this wasn’t right. But the past few weeks had changed him, making him care less about what was expected and falling into the instinctive urges that bordered on wildness.
He wanted her with an urgency that consumed him. When she dipped a cloth into the bath water, washing the dirt from the wounds on his back, he was grateful for the pain. It kept his desire under control, for her very presence aroused him.
As she moved her hands to wash his shoulders, his skin erupted with shivers. His treacherous mind envisioned her hands moving over his chest, down to the part of him that was growing harder.
Callum slowed his breathing, trying not to get distracted by her. He’d never been with a woman before, and right now, her touch upon his skin was firing up his imagination.
He remembered one night at Cairnross when a prisoner’s wife had visited her husband, trying to free him. She hadn’t succeeded, but they’d spent an hour in each other’s arms. She’d lifted her skirts and rode him, impaling herself upon her husband’s arousal.
Every man had been unable to tear his eyes away when her head had fallen back in passion, her rhythmic cries making each of them wish that he could experience such a pleasure.
When Marguerite’s hands moved to his hair, Callum let out a gasp. Though no sound broke from his mouth, his fingers dug into the wood as he struggled to keep from touching her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize that would hurt you.”
It wasn’t that. God above, he wanted to reach out and pull her into a kiss. He imagined tearing her gown apart, baring the softness of her body before he laid her down upon the bed, tasting every part of her until she knew the same torment he did.
He nodded for her to continue, and she washed his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp. It felt so good, that he closed his eyes to immerse himself in her touch. When her hands moved to the base of his neck, he started to lose his edge of control.
To distract himself, Callum held his breath and dipped his head beneath the water. She doesn’t want you, he reminded himself. This was a duke’s daughter, a woman who ranked the same as a princess. She shouldn’t have to lower herself, bathing him.
When he emerged for air, water droplets rolled down his bearded face. He opened his eyes and saw her staring at him. Beckoning to her, he touched his beard and pointed to the blade at her waist.
Her eyes furrowed a moment. “You want me to help you shave?”
He nodded. The heaviness of the beard bothered him, for it seemed that the dirt of the prison was caught within it.
“Would you rather do it yourself?” she asked.
If he tried, no doubt he’d slit his own throat without meaning to. He’d been imprisoned since he was a young boy, and when the first signs of a beard had come a few years ago, he’d simply let it grow. Never before had he shaved, and he didn’t know how.
But he wanted the touch of her hands upon him, no matter the reason.
“All right,” she agreed, “but I’ll need a sharper blade. Wait here.”
