“That’s an outdated tradition. No one does that anymore.”
His eyes held hers. “We here in Scotland are a little backwards, as I’m sure your brother has told you.”
She didn’t protest any further, because by that time he was down to his braies. And with one quick pull of the ties, those were gone as well, and he was standing naked before her.
She went completely still. Except for her eyes, which were definitely moving. Aye, he was acutely aware of the slow travel of her gaze lowering. It was almost as if her eyes were touching him—stroking him—singeing a trail of fire on his skin, down his chest, over every band of stomach muscle, to the narrow path of dark hair that led to…
Her eyes widened as she took him in. All of him. It took some time.
Red palm prints of color stained her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. The latent sensuality of her gaze, the unabashed maidenly curiosity, filled him with heat. He started to swell and thicken but sank into the cool bath before he’d come to a complete rise.
The tub was just big enough for him to be able to dunk his head. He came back up, hair slicked back, already feeling better. Sitting back, he slung his arms over the edge of the tub like a sultan from Outremer and glanced at her. She seemed to be frozen in place, staring at him as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just done and didn’t know whether she should look or turn away. She looked, and seemed particularly fascinated with the rivulets of water streaming down his upper arms and chest.
The cool water wasn’t enough to stop him from hardening. If he weren’t so angry, he might have debated the wisdom of pressing this further. But he was still angry—enough to play with fire.
He quirked a brow. “Well? Are you going to fetch the soap? There’s a cloth for washing in the trunk.” His eyes scanned her clothes. Bloody hell, he’d have to be more careful if he didn’t want her to discover his role in the Highland Guard. “Which you must already know.”
She hesitated, and he could see her indecision.
He’d never expected her to do it. He thought she’d refuse and tell him to go to hell.
He should have known better. She was a Clifford. She had more stubborn pride than sense and would not back down from a challenge. Bloody hell, how could the things he hated in her brother make him admire her?
Teeth clamped and eyes narrowed with determination, she stomped over to the trunk to fetch the cloth, and then over to the table where she’d left the soap. She knelt beside the tub, plunged her hand into the water (too damned close to a part of him that was aching for attention) to dampen the cloth, and after a vigorous rub of the soap, proceeded to attack his skin with an equally vigorous scrub. His chest suddenly felt like the rocks the laundress would beat the laundry against.
She started to scrub his arm. “These markings won’t come off.”
“It’s a tattoo.” One that he probably should have tried to hide.
“Of a Lion Rampant, and…” She drew closer, examining it with far too fine a comb. “Is that a spiderweb? And what doesConfidomean?”
“‘I trust.’ It’s a reference to my clan’s loyalty to the Scottish cause. It’s engraved on my sword as well.”
“So these are references to your clan?”
So to speak. The Highland Guard were his brothers. The Rampant Lion and spiderweb “torque” around his arm were the mark that bound them together. It was originally intended as a means of identification were the need ever to arise (as it might have when Arthur “Ranger” Campbell was sent to spy in the English camp), but the knowledge of the mark had unfortunately fallen into enemy hands with the death of William Gordon. He hoped to hell she never mentioned it to her brother.
“Aye.” Not wanting any more questions, he added, “You’re stalling.”
Realizing she was staring, her cheeks heated, and she resumed her scrubbing. There was nothing sensual in her touch, nothing erotic, but still it affected him. Hell, “affected” was putting it mildly. Just the idea of her hands on him was driving him mad. It wasn’t the first time a woman had bathed him, but it was the first time he’d ever been so painfully aware of it.
Think of England, he told himself. He laid his head back, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on everything he hated about the enemy he’d been fighting for almost half his life. Their overreaching kings, their pompous superiority, their chivalric hypocrisy, their treachery, their damned irritating accents…
But it wasn’t helping. Closing his eyes only made his other senses work harder. He could smell her warmth, the fresh scent of the heather soap, the mint on her breath, the press of every one of her soft, slim fingers on his skin.
Christ. He almost groaned.
He opened his eyes. Her golden head bowed forward as she drew the cloth over his stomach, perilously close to the heavy head of his cock, which hovered just beneath the water’s edge.
He was about to put an end to it, when she lifted her gaze to his. A gaze that was closer than he would have liked.
“Does this please you, my lord?” she taunted with a sly smile. “I’m afraid I’ve not much experience bathing men. But it isn’t much different than washing a pig before market.”
Robbie was playing a dangerous game and knew it. The heat that sprang between them had just notched up quite a few degrees. But the pig comment had struck too close and demanded retaliation. “I think you missed a spot on my arm.”
Their eyes held. He could see the green flare of temper and thought he’d won. But then her mouth pursed, and she slunk the cloth back into the water with renewed determination.
He knew the exact moment he’d made a mistake. Her movements slowed, and her hand gently started to slide the cloth over the bulge of muscle in a soft caress. He watched as her breath hitched and then quickened. As her lips parted and the glare of her eyes softened with arousal.
