Easier to bury his head.
“Is it the same one I used last night? You need one of the new percussion pistols, less heavy and dangerous.” Why the hell had he suggested that? Was his attic that empty? She was likely to shoot anything that made her jump—including him.
He dumped a boiling kettle into the large tub and refilled it at the pump. Her kitchen was probably the most modern he’d seen in the village, aside from the one Lady Elsa had installed at the manor. More evidence that the Calhoun family once had wealth.
“There’s a fire screen in the parlor, if you’ll fetch that,” she ordered. “I’ll bring down some towels. If you have a clean change of clothing, I’ll wash those things you’re wearing.” She opened a cabinet and produced a large cake of soap. “I know you don’t like lavender, but this one has a hint of bay rum.”
The stubborn fool would be the death of him yet. “This bath is for you,” he argued. “You have to be bruised from head to foot. My hide is tougher. You make soap?”
“Of course. Brydie and I sell it. You’ve probably been using it at the inn. Rafe buys small cakes to sell to guests. If the inn is to accommodate gentry one day, you have to think of these things. I can wash in my own room. I’ll be fine.” She pumped a fresh kettle while he poured hot water into the tub.
Fletch hated having his orders questioned. “I am in no humor for arguing. Fetch your nightclothes and towels and lavender soap. Soak. I’ll keep the young ones occupied until you’re done.” He walked away. He’d found that to be the most effective argument of all.
She threw a cake of soap at his head and stalked past. “Lynly, time to wash and go to bed!”
It was not. The children had gone to bed much later yesterday.
But the child wasn’t objecting. Instead, she ran happily upstairs, book in hand, chattering about the next chapter she expected Kate to read to her.
He rubbed his head and glared morosely at the empty downstairs rooms. How the hell was he to be polite and civilized when his obviously crude attempts were rejected?
Rob came in the back door bearing a stack of kindling for the fire. “Do you have a shaving kit? Or do I need to fetch dad’s?”
Shave, right. Fletch felt his overgrown scrub and tried to remember the last time he’d bothered. “Have my own, thanks,” he muttered, hoping he’d thrown it into the valise he’d hastily packed. He’d remembered to bring his rifle this time, at least.
“Do I throw the door bolt now or will you carry out the tub?” Rob lingered, looking for ways to avoid bed, maybe?
Reminded he wasn’t supposed to lift anything with his damaged arm, Fletch grimaced. “I’ll need your help later, thanks. I don’t want your mother coming into the kitchen in the morning and working around dirty water.”
“There’s a drain.” Rob pointed at a spout on the bottom of the tub. “Granddad had a pipe set under the house where the water runs out and down to the garden.”
“And the drain still works?” Fletch studied the arrangement with approval. He’d seen a pebble channel running from the house downhill but had thought it was to drain rainwater.
Rob bobbed his head. “We’d be washing under the pump elsewise. Aunt Brydie is strong enough to lift a tub of water, but Mom isn’t. I’ll be big enough to help soon.”
Fletch doubted it. The boy was small for his age and unlikely to grow faster. “You’ve already been a help. Fetch my valise from your dining room, would you? I’ll finish heating the water.”
If he meant to soak bruises, he needed more than a pail or two of water. He’d prefer to soak the damned woman first.
Once Rob returned with his bag, Fletch unknotted the sling. The cloth needed soaking as much as he did. Maybe that’s why she was so insistent. He most likely stank. She’d know. He’d been flat on top of her, a dangerous moment to recall.
Kate sent Rob back down with the towels. So much for dunking her. The woman was prescient.
The vivid bruises on his chest and arm forced him to remember not to haul more water than necessary. Fletch surrendered and sank into the welcoming heat, letting his aching muscles relax for the first time in. . . forever, he was pretty sure. Lately, he’d just been splashing himself from his basin in the morning. That had been an improvement over the infrequent washing in streams while they marched across the Continent.
Heat and a soap that lathered. . . Too much of this, and he’d become domesticated.
And then he remembered the mules and the reason a lady had to carry a pistol and he gritted his teeth.
The damned village needed to be domesticated first—starting by ridding the landscape of lunatics.
The house was quiet by the time he had the tub drained and his bandage loosely tied with an awkward knot. Cleanshaven, wearing a shirt and drawers, he set the empty tub outside, out of the way. He’d prefer to patrol the grounds, but then he’d have to dress and wrench his shoulder again putting on boots. So he bolted the door and wandered the first floor, checking locks.
She’d left an oil lamp burning in the dining room. The pocket watch gleamed on the table. The bed had been made up with fresh linens and the pretty quilt from last night. He’d not had time to lay his clockworks out. The dusty table was far more space than he had in his room at the inn. Given how many empty rooms the sprawling medieval structure had, he could probably spread the clockworks out on the floor in an empty chamber, but that was hard on the back, he knew from experience. If he was to be in any shape to fight lunatics, he didn’t need more pain. He’d fix the watch first.
Was this how domestication started—with little indulgences and avoiding pain? Or was he just getting old?
Along with the one lamp, unlit candles adorned the table. He’d seen bee hives behind the barn. The sisters probably sold high-quality beeswax candles to the manor. If he used them, he was burning their income. But the luxury of all that light. . . He’d pay her.
