“That’s the second one this week,” I say.
A hush falls over the men, no doubt finding my startlement peculiar. Blinking hard, I clear the fog and fall back into step.
When we reach the house, Joseph’s cigar smoke still clings to the doorway, though he’s long gone. Arch takes in the space as I lead them upstairs to the unused guest room. I’d made it ready earlier—window open to air it out, fresh linens turned down, a basin of water set for washing. I even let out the seams on a few of Joseph’s spare garments. He’s not as tall as Arch, but he’s thick through the middle; trousers for a man built like that often carry extra fabric in the seat. Arch will have to wear them lowon his hips, and they’re not the prettiest pair I’ve ever stitched together, but they’ll do.
Gideon crouches; metal scrapes and squeals as he opens the cuffs, then clinks together as he drags them away. I interject while I can.
“Might it be all right to clean him up? Let him change clothes? Before you shackle him again.”
Lucas presses his lips together. “That ain’t what Mr. Sherman asked us to do.”
Arch laughs. “That’s because your boss ain’t got the balls to come up here and smell me himself.”
I open my mouth, half a heartbeat from chiding Arch for his foul language like I would a drunk traveler, but I swallow it. Though a flush creeps up my neck, I square my shoulders. “Cleanliness is important for healing,” I say. “Surely you want him mended.”
Lucas and Gideon exchange a look. Finally, Lucas sighs. “Fine. We’ll wait outside.”
The door clicks shut, and the task before me sets my insides trembling, as though the ground itself has shifted under me. Arch is already tugging at his shirt. When I help him, the fabric rips away from his skin, sticky with sweat and blood. He hisses, but he doesn’t complain.
“May I clean your wounds?” I ask.
He’s shirtless, his bare torso stained with old blood, grime, and trail dust. He inches closer, rolling his shoulders back and lengthening his body as if to give me permission. “Do your worst.”
I dip the cloth into the basin. Suds of homemade soap bubble with hints of lye and rosemary. My hands are steady, but they don’t feel as though they are. Not when I stand in his shadow brushing a cool rag against his broad chest. Not when his breath brushes the top of my head.
His shoulders are sturdy, chest all hard lines and scars. He looks dangerous. Dangerous and alive, and I despise the way that makes my stomach flip. He doesn’t turn away. Doesn’t even blink. The silence between us is deafening.
“You’re frightened,” he says, half a question.
I don’t answer. Whatever it is, the power of this spell has teeth and honey both. My mouth dries as I chase a spot of rust-brown blood against the planes of his taut stomach. My goodness—he’s solid as stone. Muscles clench under my touch, then ease, the shadows shifting with them. A pale scar tucks under one ridge, a freckle under another.
He tilts his head, watching me. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
The words land like a warning, not a comfort. He could break me in two if he wanted—oh, how he could break me—we both know it. The thought leaves me hollow, as though my ribs have been scooped clean, making room for sin to flood in. Shame rises fast, curling around me like ivy. Beneath it, a slick ache warms at the apex of my thighs.
I shove the cloth into his hand. “Do it yourself.” I turn my back, my insides churning from how abrupt I’ve just been.Foolish woman.
Fabric rustles; water splashes into the basin—it sounds lewd. My palms sweat against my apron, neck burning with heat I can’t shake.
He’s quiet as he works, but every sound paints an obscene picture. I grip the dresser, staring at a framed pastoral scene, pretending not to hear the wet drag of cloth over skin. I keep my back turned while he strips off what’s left of his trousers. The shuffle of fabric, the grunt of effort, the creak of the bedframe—it all sounds louder than it should.
There’s a pause, then the soft rasp of cloth being pulled up over his legs. He exhales hard, as if even that small task has taxed him.
“All right,” he says at last.
I force myself to turn back, only to realize he hasn’t put on trousers at all. He stands there in nothing but his drawers, thin cotton clinging tighter than it ought, cut too narrow for a man built like him. They ride low on his hips, fabric strained tight across the heavy swell of him.Oh dear.I wrench my curiosity away, barely stifling a gasp.
He notices. Of course he does. His smile unfurls slowly, edged with a darkness that unsettles me. “Don’t reckon these were stitched for a man my size,” he drawls.
My throat tightens, fingers fumbling with the trousers still folded on the bed. “I let out the ankle. They’re cut a bit looser.”
He stoops, stepping one long leg then the other into the trousers, drawing them slowly up his muscular thighs; he knows I’m watching. The waistband settles into place across his hips, the fabric fitting better than I feared, though not loose enough to spare me the sight of him. The length falls straight now, thanks to my alterations.
“Sit,” I say, sharper than I intend. “Let me tend your wounds.”
I kneel beside him, fingers brushing his side as I wind the cloth around his ribs. His skin is hot beneath my touch, muscles taut even at rest. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. He only watches me.
My hands tremble, traitorous things, and I curse them silently. I pull the bandage snug and knot it. “There.” I reach for the shirt laid neatly across the chair and shake it out. “Arms.”
