“Please, Stone?” And there it was. That pretty little pout and those enticing fluttering lashes. How had he been immune to these tactics in London and then lost all ability to resist up here in Scotland?
“Shaving is a very personal matter.” He made one last attempt to elude her.
“I’m your wife. That ought to be personal enough to shave you.” She pushed down on his shoulder, giving him no choice but to plant his hindquarters on the chair. “I’ve done nothing but trust you since my accident. Now it’s your turn to trust me.”
She tilted his head backward and slid something soft behind his neck. The position was a surprisingly comfortable one.
“Lay back and relax.”
He closed his eyes. He did rather enjoy having her fuss over him.
“Your eye’s getting better. It’s more yellow than black. Does it still hurt?”
It didn’t. And he hardly noticed the ache in his ribs. She was rather good at keeping him distracted.
“You’re not going to slit my throat, are you?”
“Hush.” Sounds of her arranging various items on the table sounded near his ear.
Even though he could have hired a valet, he normally shaved himself, and usually every day.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked her. An unshaven face was an outward sign of a man of the lower class.
She touched her hand to his chin, stroking his beard. An unexpected sensation of intimacy settled between them. “It rather makes you look like a warrior.” Her fingertips skimmed along his jaw and then around his mouth, pausing to delicately caress his lips. “My warrior.”
He opened his eyes, unable to keep from looking at her.
“I am, you know.” Where the hell had that come from?
She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. Her kiss was delicate. A promise. Sweet—like her.
“Well, my warrior’s beard is rubbing my face raw.”
“We can’t have that.” He closed his eyes again, shaken at the surge of protectiveness he felt for her.
That’s all this was, surely. An overwhelming sense of responsibility and duty. Combined with a tidal wave of lust.
She dropped a warm cloth over the lower half of his face and, after a few minutes, brushed lathered soap into the growth. It smelled of sandalwood and cloves, making him think that perhaps she did have some experience at this. Either that or she’d watched her brother’s valet shave him once and was merely mimicking what she’d seen.
He tried not to tense up when she raised the blade to his cheek.
“I think I must have learned how to do this from my father,” she explained, stretching the skin upward with her fingertips and stroking the razor downward. “But I’ve done it before.”
He didn’t speak because that would mean he’d have to move his mouth. Much safer to keep still.
“I thought I might remember something if I could see you without the beard,” she said softly, all the while efficiently scraping the blade along his skin.
He hadn’t thought of that. He never wore a beard in London. What if she remembered who he really was when she wiped the soap off his face? Perhaps he ought to keep a close eye on that blade after all.
“Does the idea of remembering frighten you?” he asked when she’d turned to rinse the blade.
“Yes.” She barely paused before going back to work. “It shouldn’t, but… There’s this part inside of me that’s terrified. Terrified that I won’t like who I am. Terrified that it will change how I feel.” And then she stopped altogether.
Stone opened his eyes, knowing what was coming.
She licked her lips and then locked her gaze with his. “I’m terrified that it will change things between you and me.” Her words sounded barely louder than a whisper.
Was it possible that somehow her fear was suppressing her memory? That deep down, she knew what was coming?
