Trew stood in the open doorway.
His gaze glided down my wet body, slow as honey. Not hurried or one bit bashful. A deliberate assessment, like he was committing the sight to memory.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t speak. I didn’t cover myself either. Because for a second, his mask slipped. And what I saw in his eyes wasn’t mockery or smugness or disdain.
I found hunger. Sharp and unflinching.
His jaw tightened. His hands curled at his sides. Then he stepped further into the room.
My pulse jumped.
He reached past me, grabbing a towel from a hook on the side of the tub, and held it out to me.
I didn’t take it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, my voice low and scratchy.
He tilted his head. “You’re right.”
“Then whyareyou here?” Even I could hear the dare in my voice.
“I brought you clothing. For dinner. The celebration.”
What king delivered clothing to a freshly spit-out warrior? Did he run out of servants?
If this is some royal version of flirting, he was doing a damn good job of confusing me instead.
A pivot, and he was gone, leaving me alone again, wrapped in steam and silence, clutching a towel like armor, trying to convince myself I hadn’t wanted him to stay.
Telling myself that he hadn’t looked at me like I was already his.
After drying, I left the towel on the tub surround, a few droplets of water still gliding down my legs. The bath let out a quiet sigh, water vanishing with a whisper of steam. No pipes. No drains. The castle simply took care of it for me.
My hair hung in damp ropes down my back, trailing across my bare spine. I crossed the warm stone floor and stepped into my bedroom, letting the air touch my skin that prickled everywhere it cooled. The door to the hall was closed. I didn’t sense or hear anyone outside.
Why had I thought Trew would be standing here, waiting for me?
Grumbling, I turned toward the bed.
King Trewyn’s offering sat on the coverlet in a neat pile.
My stomach twisted. What kind of clothing had this king delivered?
I approached them. Lifted them.
The tunic had been crafted from blue fabric, the same pale color as my eyes, and I held it up in the light. Long enough to cover my hips, it could be cinched in at my waist with the braided leather cord coiled in a neat pile on top of the darker blue pants. Deep pockets. A clean, utilitarian design with bits of silver etching that would catch the light but not flash or look bold. Soft and sensual to the touch.
This was no simple dress a woman might wear for a celebratory dinner. No, this was an outfit perfect for a woman who might need to defend herself with her feet and her hands.
I scanned the room. Shadows pooled beside the wardrobe and behind the carved screen near the hearth. I even glanced toward the ceiling, but I found no other evidence this man had been inside my room.
With this clothing, he’d left his mark again. Did he imagine me wearing them when he chose them?
The underthings had been tucked beneath the pants. Soft. Luxurious. And with thin lace trim so fine it nearly disappeared into thepale blue fabric. Not the kind of thing you’d hand off to a simple warrior. These had been chosen specifically for me.
Had he touched them and imagined them caressing my body? Had he held them to his mouth and closed his eyes?
I should dig out my travel wear. Donning the things he’d brought me would look like submission. But my fingers moved on their own, pinning the tunic against my chest, my senses soaking in the smooth weave of the cloth on my bare skin.
