As the cart disappeared out of sight, George eyed her employer with trepidation, waiting for him to ring a peal over her head. But, ‘Start filling the bath,’ was all he said curtly before disappearing in the direction of the stable.
It took her nearly an hour to fill the bath up to the top, and she was beginning to hope she might have enough time to get in and out of the tub before he returned. Dipping her finger into the water, she shuddered. As she’d predicted, it was freezing. Whimpering, she hesitated. She’d need to hide her coins first and get Mrs. Parsons’ soap.
Muttering to herself, she hurried back into the kitchen and into her little cubby hole. Then, reaching inside her shirt, she pulled at the bandages and removed her precious coins, tucking them under the mattress. Heart thudding, she grabbed the soap from the table and went back outside. Only to skid to a halt just outside the door.
Anthony was seated in the bath, very obviously naked. His breeches and shirt lay discarded on the ground. ‘It’s a good job we have our own deuced well,' he growled. 'You’ve used enough water here to last us a sennight. Have you got the soap?’
Hesitantly, she walked closer and held out the soap. She couldn’t help noticing that his lips were blue and resisted the urge to mutter, 'Serves you right.'
‘I suddenly realised that we haven’t named the horse yet,’ he said, soaping his hair. ‘How about Horatio?’
‘Bloody stupid name,’ she mumbled, looking anywhere but his lean torso as he stretched his arms over his head.
‘That was the Admiral’s first name,’ he argued. ‘So we’ll have Horatio and Nelson. Perfect.' She stifled a gasp and looked determinedly at the floor as he stood up and began soaping … other areas.
‘Can you grab the bucket and pour it over my head,’ he asked after a minute or so. She waited until she heard the splash as he sat down, then looked up and gingerly stepped towards the tub. ‘Just dip it in there.’ He pointed to the shadowy area in between his legs. ‘But be careful what you scoop out.’ He gave a bawdy laugh, and she couldn’t help it, her face flamed.
Carefully, she filled the pail with water and tipped it over his head. ‘Bloody hell, you were right,’ he muttered, ‘it’s perishing cold. One more and then you can fetch me a bath sheet. Mrs. Parsons left two hanging by the fire to warm.’
George poured another bucketful over his head, then scurried thankfully back into the kitchen. She was beginning to feel slightly feverish. She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.
‘Hurry up, George. My ballocks are likely to disappear up to my naval if I sit in here much longer.’
Quickly grabbing one of the bath sheets, George, hurried back outside, just as Anthony rose from the tub. For a second, she was transfixed. His body was perfect. Lean but taut, every muscle revealed in stark relief as the water slid down the hard planes of his chest, then his thighs, back towards the bath.
Now fighting ridiculous tears, George thrust the towel into his waiting hands and hurried back towards the dubious safety of the kitchen. ‘Your turn,’ he shouted as he wrapped the sheet around his shoulders and stepped out onto his soiled clothes. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
‘Come on, britches off,’ he ordered cheerfully, following her into the kitchen. 'It will only take a few minutes, and I’ll help you the same as you did me.’
Oh no you won’t, she thought hysterically.
‘Get them off, George, or I’ll do it for you.’ Trembling, she began to fumble with the buttons on her britches.
‘Wot if I drown?’ she whispered, her voice breaking pathetically. He frowned and stopped drying himself for a second.
‘You can’t swim?’ She shook her head, feeling a sudden flare of hope. Mayhap he wouldn’t force her after all. Then he shook his head and chuckled. ‘Don’t worry lad, there’s not enough water for you to drown in, least not without help, and when we’ve finished the repairs, I’ll teach you to swim.’ To George’s mortification, he dropped the sheet and strode towards the fire to claim a clean pair of breeches.
Trembling, she pushed her filthy britches down to her feet and stood in her drawers and shirt. ‘Come on, the quicker you get in, the quicker you can get out. The water won’t wash you away.' George merely remained rooted to the spot, wringing her hands, earning her a frown.
‘What the devil’s wrong with you lad? Surely you’ve had a bath before.’ George swallowed and shook her head.
‘Well there’s a first time for everything,’ he declared, not unsympathetically, ‘and in truth, you really do stink.’ He took a persuasive step towards her, and she stepped back correspondingly, causing him to click his tongue in exasperation. ‘Trust me, you’ll feel so much better once you’re clean.’
Feeling as though a huge lump had lodged itself in her throat, George simply shook her head again.
Anthony frowned. ‘Youaregoing in that bath – even if I have to carry you.’ He stared at her, and she knew the instant he recognised she was going to run. What outcome she hoped to achieve didn’t even enter her head - reason had completely deserted her. She was acting entirely on instinct – her only focus to get past the obstacle in her path.
‘George…’ he began, putting up a placating hand. Abruptly, she saw her chance, scooting round the table in an effort to get to the door before he did.
She nearly managed it too, but at the last second, he snagged the back of her shirt and yanked her back, pulling her into his chest. She fought like a cornered animal, but seconds later, he threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He wasn’t even breathing heavily, the bastard. Inexorably, he carried her towards the waiting tub and without ceremony, dumped her in it.
Her breath whooshed out of her body in shock as the water closed over her head and seconds later, she came up spluttering and screaming like a banshee. Abruptly, realising he wasn’t holding her down, she pushed herself upwards and started to rise from the bath, only to catch sight of him staring at her in disbelief. Heart banging against her ribs, she looked down. Her bandages had slipped leaving a trail of cloth floating on top of the water and her breasts proudly on display underneath the shirt.
She might as well have been naked.
Chapter Eight
The next morning Reverend Shackleford was still pondering the problem of young George. He couldn’t recollect if the lad had ever given a family name, but somehow he didn’t think so. There was definitely something sour about the whole business, though when he’d mentioned it to Agnes at supper, she claimed he was the victim of an overripe imagination, likely due to too much cheese, and offered to dose him with one of her potions.
