She wetted her lips. “That I know. And I also know ye have every right to see to any punishment yerself… as ’twasyeI disrespected with my disobedience.”
“I will not discipline ye.”
Astrid could feel a scorching heat, but she wasn’t sure if it was from her or from him. “No. Ye never have.”
“And I will not.”
Astrid wasn’t sure what to say to convince him that she was sincere in her desire to see to his needs. His chest rose and fell and she noticed his breathing getting faster. Looking from blue eye to green eye, she said, “Allow me to assist ye. I have wronged ye, and I know that. Believe me, I do. I ask ye to allow me to show ye the respect due every warrior. Respect I have been sorely lacking.”
Marcán would admit to being taken aback at the confession. This was so unlike the Astrid he knew. The moon shining on her face revealed her dampened lips with their soft pink hue, slightly parted, calling to him. Urging him to move in closer. Marcán struggled with the crazy idea of kissing her. Then she smiled at him, and he’d swear it was a smile of encouragement.
He was more exhausted than he had believed.
She was asking for his forgiveness. That was all. Her sincerity was obvious, and he knew he was damned. This might be the hardest trial he had ever faced. He could not refuse her, but he tried one last time to avoid the inevitable.
“I believe ye, and I offer ye my forgiveness with nothing more required of ye.”
Her eyes rounded. “Please.”
That simple request was his undoing. “Then let us see to this bath.”
She turned, his hand still in hers, and led the way. The sight of her nicely rounded bottom was much more appealing than any slave’s. He looked heavenward and blew out a breath.
God, help me keep my mind on anything other than what’s about to happen.
The stars twinkled back, and he had the strange feeling he’d received an answer to his prayer. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected.
* * *
The wooden tub sat in the middle of the small space. Baskets and new oaken barrels were stacked alongside the walls, making it an even tighter fit for the two of them. Marcán turned toward Astrid, and she lifted hisléineover his head with no hesitation. His tired imagination heard a gasp of pleasure from her.
With nerves of iron, he willed himself to remain unmoved by the gesture. His tightbraiesmight go unnoticed if he quickly submerged himself. But the water was hotter than he’d anticipated, and he had to wait to sit all the way in the tub.
Astrid had turned away to drape the blood and mud caked garment over the barrels. When she turned back to him, he took a deep breath and sank into the water.
“Is it not overly hot?” she asked, a cloth in one hand and soap in the other.
“I am fine.” Marcán gritted his teeth, the steam rising around him, lapping against his chest. He felt like he was cooking, being prepared for a meal. With his knees bent up in front of him, he leaned forward to offer his back to her. Better to get this done quickly.
She hesitated but a moment before dipping the cloth into the water and lathering it. Surrounded by her scent, he closed his eyes in agony. “Yer own soap, Astrid?”
More sweet torture—and it would be clinging to him for many days.
“It is the best we have.”
Her hand against his skin was gentle, the swiping motion precise as she traced from shoulder to shoulder, working her way lower. He leaned his forehead against his knees.
God, don’t let her be gentle.
“Ye needn’t be too gentle. I am a warrior after all.” His laugh sounded stilted, but Astrid showed no sign of noticing.
She increased the pressure, her hand moving more quickly as she made her way down his back.
“I have helped Diarmuid with his bath, Marcán.”
Her matter-of-fact tone helped settle him—it sounded more like what he would expect from her.
“I do not know why I never offered ye the same.”
