Isabail clapped her hands over her ears. “Enough. No details, please.”
“He’s a difficult man to please, my Fearghus,” Muirne continued, draping the towel over a nearby chair and pulling a stool closer to the tub. “But he says he likes it here.”
Isabail leaned forward, giving the maid access to her back. “Dunstoras is a lovely castle.”
“I’ve only one complaint,” the maid said, lathering the soap across Isabail’s back.
“What would that be?”
“Lady Elisaid.”
“Oh, dear,” said Isabail, frowning. “What has she done now?”
“She’s torn down the tapestries we hung in the great hall yesterday. She wants those dusty old ones with the MacCurran crest put back.”
A sigh escaped Isabail’s lips. “Fine. Wash them and put them back.”
“But, my lady,” Muirne protested, “if the king were ever to visit—”
“The king is not going to visit,” Isabail said. “Not anytime soon, at any rate. And if we get word that he’s about to descend upon us, we’ll take them down.”
Isabail leaned her forehead on her knees and let the tension flow out of her neck. The maid was doing an exquisite job of soaping her back. Strong, sure strokes that made her limp with languid pleasure. “Och, that’s lovely, Muirne. A little lower... Ah, perfect.”
The maid’s thumbs pressed firmly in the flesh between her shoulder blades, and Isabail gave up a little moan. She had not realized how stiff her back had become of late. “You could make your fortune with those hands, goodwife.”
“I’m afraid these hands are already spoken for,” a gruff voice whispered in her ear.
Isabail smiled. They weren’t Muirne’s hands at all. She should have guessed by the roughness of the calluses. “Are they now?”
“Only my wife benefits,” Aiden said. His hands reached up and unpinned her hair, letting the silky blond tresses fall over her shoulders. The ends fell into the water.
“Now you’ve done it,” she said. “You’ll have to wash my hair.”
Two large male feet stepped into the bath, and water sloshed over the edge as he sat behind her. He pulled her back against his chest, one arm wrapping around her waist. A familiar sight, that arm—bronzed sinews scattered with a dusting of dark hairs. Strong, powerful, and comforting.
“I can think of worse punishments,” he whispered into the hair at her temple.
Isabail relaxed against him. “You’re going to smell like roses for the rest of the day,” she warned him. “Be prepared to suffer ribald remarks from Niall and Wulf.”
“Niall, perhaps,” he agreed. “But Wulf has left the castle.”
She trailed wet fingers up his arm. “He’s still uncomfortable.”
“Aye,” Aiden acknowledged. “But it’s rough on the lad.”
“Does Wulf not spend time with him?”
“He does,” Aiden said. “But he still doesn’t remember the lad. Or Elen, or wee Hugh. They converse like strangers.”
“Give them time. They’ll find their way.”
His hands slid up her soapy body to cup her breasts. “The passage of time is greatly overvalued as a solution to life’s ills.”
She covered his big hands with hers. “Danielwasthe man in black.”
He snorted. “I’m not so confident as you.”
“Did we not find the black wolf cloak at Tayteath? In the very same chamber as we found the necklace and the crown?”
