Heat floods my face. “I wouldn’t!”
He ignores me and turns toward the entrance. “Bring her in.”
The flap opens, and for a moment I can’t process what I’m seeing.
Nella …myNella … stumbles inside, her face blotchy and tear-streaked. She’s carrying soap and a wash cloth. When she sees me, naked in the water, she freezes.
Her eyes go wide. “My lady!”
“Nella.” Her name is a sob. “What … how?”
“I don’t know.” She’s crying. “I woke up and I was here.”
“I hate to break up this reunion.” Cairn steps between us. “She’s here to wash you. Your hair especially. It’s disgusting.”
Nella stumbles toward the tub, still crying. When she touches my shoulder, I flinch, and she makes a small, wounded sound.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” I grip her hand. “Nella, look at me. This isn’t your fault.”
She’s shaking as hard as I am. And Cairn just watches, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face impassive.
“Wash her.”
Nella moves closer, and does as he’s ordered. She washesmy back, my arms, my shoulders, gentle even though her fingers shake. She’s done this a thousand times. But never with a man in the room. Never with one watching every pass of the cloth.
She washes my hair, working the soap through the tangles, rinsing and washing again. And through it all, he watches. I can feel his gaze like hands on my body, touching places no man has ever touched.
“Turn around,” he says when she’s rinsed my hair. “Let me see.”
My stomach drops. Nella freezes.
I turn slowly in the water, and his eyes travel over my body.
“Wash her hair again.”
Nella’s hands are shaking so badly, she keeps catching her fingers in the tangles. I think she’s crying, but I can’t turn around to comfort her. I can’t do anything while he’s standing there, watching.
When she’s finally done, he nods toward the edge of the tub. “Out.”
I don’t even fight him. I stand, water streaming down my body. Nella tries to shield me with a cloth. It’s too small to cover much, but she tries, stepping between me and Cairn.
“There are clothes on the chair. Dress her.”
Nella scurries over and picks up the material, unfolding it. A tunic, short and shapeless, and I realize in horror that it’s the same kind he was wearing when I hunted him.
Nella’s face crumples again. “I can’t … this isn’t right.”
“Put. It. On. Her.”
Nella helps dry me, and then lifts the tunic over my head. It falls to mid-thigh … barely. The fabric is coarse against my skin, and there’s nothing underneath. No undergarments, or chemise, or stockings. Just this rough smock that leaves my legs bare.
I’ve never worn anything like this. Even my nightdresses fallto my ankles. My hunting clothes, as practical as they are for riding, are loose-fitting and cover me from throat to foot. I’ve never felt air on my thighs like this, never felt so exposed while being clothed.
The hem brushes against my bottom when I move. One wrong step, one gust of wind, one stumble, and?—
Heat floods my face, my stomach heaves, and I press my hand over my mouth, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat.
