His eyes close as he smirks. “Well, let me know when you become evil again. But do dress me first. Clean, well dressed. St. Peter will accept me.”
“The dream with Tavis unsettled you.”
“Very much so. Makes me think I’m missing something.” He takes the towel from my fingers and dries his face. “You and Tavis are similar. You come to me when you want something. So Katia, out with it. The suspense is killing me.”
His jokes about dying make me fretful, but I refuse to surrender. “You’re the planner. I’m sure you’ve thought of a way out of my clutches.”
“Such gentle clutches.” He chuckles. “I’m sure I’ll pay when one of us, you, escapes.”
This jest stings. “You have every reason to be suspicious, but I want you well. And you need to eat more. You’re too thin.”
“You like me … thick, Katia?”
My face feels heated from the memory of forty days and nights spent in a dacha by the river. Two newlywed souls found freedom in the arms of the other—freedom in nakedness, freedom in talking and dreaming and feasting upon the other. Feast is theonly way to describe the pleasure of finding the perfect nourishment of mind, body, and soul.
But I ran from our connection, Jahleel’s and mine. I allowed others to lie on it, on him, when I should’ve scoffed and held on. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run—”
“Talk with Scarlett. Get her to add something to my teas to fatten me up.”
He doesn’t want to hear empty words. I take a fresh towel and dry his hair as much as possible. Then I step away and finish pulling off the old linen and smooth fresh ones in place. When I return to the tub, Jahleel is looking up.
A painted ceiling of orthodox saints hangs over us. I ask, “Is that Lazarus up there?”
“Yes, and Moses the Moor.” His voice sounds calm, like this is normal: a Black saint and a man rising from the dead. “I know why you’ve come.”
“You do?” I sigh. He understands. “Jahleel—”
“Scarlett said the Marchioness of Prahmn is gossiping,” he continues. “Circumstances have just allowed for her to return to living in the neighborhood. It’s a shame. You’d expect more gratitude when I helped make this happen.”
What did Jahleel do to get his nemesis Lord Prahmn to relent? I bite my lip and rub his shoulders. “You’re very tense.”
“Katherine. I said that the gossips are active. Something should be done.”
“Don’t do anything but relax, Your Grace. Whatever shame I garner is earned.”
“The marchioness has influence. She’s a matron of Mayfair. Her words can lead to your acceptance in the community of peers. How will you get your next husband if the matrons keep gossiping?”
Next husband.According to the papers Jahleel’s barrister gave me, I had one. “Don’t exactly need another one. I’d like to be content being your mistress.”
Jahleel slumps to the right. “Not looking for one.”
I dip my hand in the water. It’s cooled. “You’re catching a chill?”
He doesn’t answer.
Kneeling behind him, I hover and check his temples. He doesn’t feel any warmer. Dipping the cloth into the water, I swab his arms. Suds pile onto the fresh bloodletting marks above the crook of his elbow. “Tell me I’m doing something right.”
His head settles against my bosom. “Da, this is good.” He bites his lip.
Pain settles into his face. Not sure what compels me, but I put my arms around him—the heel of my palm presses at his breastbone.
Dripping onto me, dampening my apron, Jahleel stays against me. I hold him more tightly. The thudding of his heart vibrates.
He grips my arm. Together, we endure this wave of pain.
Then his grasp falls away. “Perhaps, it wasn’t such a good idea to get out of bed.”
Whispering, I say, “But you’re out. That has to be better.”
