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“Aye,” he says softly. “You can.”

I think back to what he told me belowstairs. Of his upbringing. And immediately regret my words. Even misused as I’ve been, my husband attempting to beget a child when the mood struck him, he’d never been violent with me.

Threatened it many times, but not once did he strike me. At least, not with his hand. The many lashes against my soul are another matter entirely.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I spoke out of turn. I know there is worse. I know you’ve seen worse.”

He makes a dismissive sound. Presumably he has begun to undress. I hear his soft movements, but as always, Aiken is as stealthy as any man I’ve ever met.

“Was it . . . was it terrible?” I venture, tensing.

“My childhood?”

I nod and then realize he does not see me. “Aye.”

The clink of boots against the floorboards confirms my suspicions.

“My mother loved me. ’Twas all that mattered.”

“How do you mean?”

A splash of water reaches my ears. The very idea of it. Aiken. Nude. And worse, me thinking in such a way about a man that took me captive, a man of God no less.

Perhaps I am a harlot as my husband accused me of being. I may not have had an affair with Lord Bowes, but the thoughts running through my head now are anything but pure.

“You may look,” he says. “I am fully submerged.”

Indeed, as I open my eyes and shift them toward the tub, I see nothing but his torso. And arms. And shoulders.

Could a man look more different than my husband?

At sixty and seven, Whitley was fit for his age though pale and saggy. But not the Elderman. As he splashes water onto his face, the muscles in his shoulders constrict, the sinew bulging out, emphasizing his incredible strength, his dominance. What power he wields, this Elderman. This Shadow Warrior.

Tis no wonder I’m reminded of the two knights who ran from him. I’ve no doubt that, had those men in Craighcebor stayed to engage him, Aiken would have easily cut them both down.

Finally, I remember to blink.

“I knew plenty of boys, and girls too, who had not the love of any parent. My mother and the other women cared for me. Fed me. Clothed me and saw me bathed so often I was teased mercilessly by the other children for it. I was not one of them, though. I was . . .” He pauses. “I was no one.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

He looks toward the stool next to the tub and reaches for the soap. As he does, more of his chest is exposed, and I’m finding it difficult to look away.

“The women were careful not to beget children, and when they did, their babies were taken away. But my mother fought to keep me, her master agreeing because none of the women were more requested than my mother.”

He smiles and the effect sends shivers from my wet head all the way down to my toes. What a sight indeed.

“My mother is quite beautiful.”

As are you. Although I keep that thought to myself.

“She is alive still, then?”

He seems surprised by the question.

“Aye, very much so.”

As he washes, I look away. Not that I want to look away, but tis proper. I focus instead on the fire to his right, again thankful for such a capable maid.