Meghan sighed.
“You are a very good lady’s maid, August.”
He grunted.
Her mother and male relations would disagree.
Frowning, Meghan opened her eyes. She must have heard something in that nothing—but she was too innocent to know it for what it was.
Lust.
Culross rubbed the cake of soap into his cloth and, with the restraint of a thousand men, lifted her arm. His fingers curled around her velveteen skin.
He sucked in a hiss through his teeth.
Using her freckled path to guide him, Culross rubbed smooth circles with the soapy rag until he reached her feet.
Sweat built at his brow.
He gave extra attention to her shapely ankles that fascinated him.
A single bead of moisture wound along his cheek.
When had he lusted after any woman the way he did Meghan Smith?
By her birthright alone, he hated her.
His jaw shifted.
Hate and lust were an apt pairing.
With that reminder, he moved to her toes and washed them one by one.
Meghan’s breathy giggle did not help matters.
“Th-that tickles.”
Gritting his teeth, he let her leg down too quickly.
Water splashed wildly over the sides. Suds and droplets sprayed his face and lawn shirt.
Culross stood and came around to the other side of the tub. The water had developed enough of a sheen to conceal the lady’s naked form.
Meghan proffered her other shapely leg.
He wiped the soapy cloth over his forehead.
Why did she offer him so much?
As if the universe wished to illustrate his point, her body relaxed, so her shoulders slipped beneath the water. A soft sigh eased past her lips while he rinsed her.
Why, when she had wanted her marriage to Hartwell? Would she have responded to the other man with the same eager enthusiasm?
His fist folded tight. The cake broke and he let the white remnants fall like the snow drifting outside. An unholy rage took hold.
Then Meghan began to sing.
The moment she opened her mouth, an unmistakable frisson shivered through him.
