She stood and moved around the screen, and his eyes widened. He bit back a groan. He could see her seductive silhouette as she undressed. Off came her gown and under things. She bent to retrieve the bucket, and the curve of her derriere would haunt his dreams.
He was rock hard again, pressing his hand over his groin in case she happened to look his way.
Wait. She’d been sitting on the bed while he bathed, hadn’t she? Had she endured the same erotic show? He desperately wanted to know if she’d sat here and ogled him while he bathed.
She stepped into the tub, her lithe shadow disappearing. He closed his eyes, imagining her hands rubbing the soap over her body in every cleft and crevice.
He fisted his hands in the sheets.
She bathed quickly and redressed. He didn’t open his eyes and watch. He had to get control of himself.
“I’m going to have the tub removed now.”
He cracked one eye opened and tilted his head to see her through the helmet. She was fully dressed once again. She went to the door and pulled the cord. He lay back, resting his eyes, hearing the innkeeper and his wife as they fetched the tub and bid them good night.
“Mrs. Davies took your clothing to be laundered,” she said. “She’ll do it tonight, and it should be dry by midday if she hangs it in the kitchen.” Willa said as she put the chair and screen back in their rightful places. She went behind it, and he heard the excruciatingly arousing noise of clothing being removed.
“I couldn't help but notice the screen was nearly see-through when placed in front of the fire.”
“Oh,” she said, her voice drenched with innocence, “I hadn't noticed.”
He grinned. He'd like to think that she'd watched him and known he could see her. Not that she’d done anything deliberately enticing, but she’d had to know, and she’d still undressed in his view. She’d also scrubbed his back. She was attracted to him, as he was to her. She was his, at least for now. He eagerly awaited the moment she climbed into the bed. He intended to do nothing more than hold her, protect her through the night as if he were whole, as if he had the right as her husband, as a man capable of making love to a woman.
He supposed hewascapable, but he wouldn't. Not like this, with the filthy helmet on his head and an oozing wound.
If he ever had the chance to make love to Willa, he wanted it to be perfect. Her body bathed in candlelight, crisp clean sheets underneath her that hadn't been slept on by countless bodies before them, and hours to explore every inch of her without uncertainty and fear on the horizon. She deserved that and more.
She came out from behind the screen dressed down to her shift, and the muscles across his stomach tightened, his blood now heavy and thick as honey.
This might be a mistake, his conscience warned him. He pulled the sheet higher over his waist, creating a barrier between them as she climbed into the bed and settled against the pillows. She turned on her side away from him. That was not at all how he envisioned lying with her, but that might be what's best. He considered turning on his side to face her, so he could watch her fall asleep, but the helmet would not allow it. He lay back with a sigh, folding his hands behind his metal head and staring up at the patched ceiling.
Was it wrong for him to pray, not knowing who waited for him at the end of this journey, that he was an unattached man, wealthy, the appropriate class and status to offer for her? He wanted it with everything in him.
Chapter 18
When Willa woke the next morning, he was already awake and dressed. She sat up in the bed. “What time is it?”
“About a quarter past eight,” he said.
“Goodness, I've never slept so late before.”
“Truly?” he asked.
“I've always been an early riser. I suppose I needed the rest after the past few days. Your clothes are already dry?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Davies was kind enough to deliver them this morning. You look lovely. The rest did you well.”
“Thank you.” Willa tucked her hair behind her ear, flushing with embarrassment at the sight of him. At some point during the night, she’d woken to find herself pressed against his side, his arm around her. She dreamed about him stroking her hair and kissing her, but in her dream, he hadn't had a face. Her eyes had been closed and all she could feel was his lips against hers, his nose brushing hers, the soft stubble of his cheek, the strands of his hair between her fingers as she held his head. The strong flex of his hands as he held her.
She’d pressed against his body, her breasts to his wide chest, her hips to his groin, feeling the manly flesh between his legs. Their calves and feet tangled together and not a stitch of clothing existed between them.
Such a wicked and lovely dream. In the morning light, she felt wanton for having it. Could he see her thoughts and know she was having illicit dreams about him, even though she couldn't see his face? The touch of his lips was now imprinted on her mind, and she was hungry for more than fried eggs and plump sausage.
Willa wanted another kiss, and another, and she wanted to be rid of that blasted helmet, so she could hold his face and kiss his eyes, his nose, and feel the brush of his hair against her fingers. She didn't know it was possible to crave another human, but she did. Willa wanted him with her whole body, wanted to fill every sensory desire with him.
She’d slept next to him in her shift as if she might be able to tempt him, knowing it was wrong. The future with him was so uncertain.
Perhaps it was in her blood. Her mother and father still enjoyed a very physical relationship, even in their advanced ages. Her mother had born another child only a year and a half ago. Willa was a hot-blooded woman, and he a virile young man.
