with this. I’ll get some oil.”
Brenna hurried to the carved chest, as if suddenly appalled at her boldness. There was an awkward silence while she unstopped a bottle and added a few drops of sweet-smelling oil to the water.
Leon suspected she was rarely so tongue-tied; any girl who looked like this one did would have learned at an early age how to make the most of her assets. He rubbed his chin with both hands, feeling the stubble from several days’ growth scratch the skin of his palms. No doubt he stank of sweat and grime and horse. He truly needed to bathe, and he could not deny it would be pleasant to have the woman tend him.
He held out the bar of soap. “Come, wash my back.”
Her blush deepened. She pressed her hands together quickly, nervously. Bending over, she took the soap from his hand and rubbed it against a linen cloth. She touched him hesitantly, as if not sure of where she should begin or exactly what she should do. The hands were soft and gentle and the hot soapy water against his skin felt delicious. Her fingers traced the steel tendon that ran down the back of his neck to his spine. He felt the thick muscles of his back bunch at her touch.
“It’s not too hot, is it?”
“No.”
She moved her foot. Her knee was not far from his shoulder. The out-flung length of one leg. Her slender ankle and the pointed toe of her shoe. The innocence of her pose created the eroticism of the moment. Intensifying so that he felt the stirring inside himself. Not merely his groin. All over. He was suffused with longing. His manhood was stiff and quivering. As if it were his whole body.
“May I?” Her hands massaged his neck and the back of his head and the massive muscle that joined his head to his shoulders. She stroked his hair. Pain rushed up his temple, rang like hooves drumming clay. He could not help the small shudder that ran through him. She jerked her hand back. “You’ve got a lump on the side of your head the size of an egg!”
“I was a trifle careless,” he said, keeping his voice light.
She pursed her lips, as if she wished she could say otherwise. “That may be true, but your hair still needs a wash,” she said, her voice holding mild reproof.
He ducked down under the surface long enough to count to twenty, and to want air. He broke surface again. For a heartbeat his eyes locked with hers.
“Do what you want. I won’t stop you.”
Brenna gnawed her lip, edged closer and let go a breath. “I will try not to hurt you.”
He tipped his head back while she washed out his hair, combing through the snarls with gentle fingers, trying not to feel anything, remember anything, wonder anything.
“Close your eyes,” she ordered, running a soapy finger over each eyelid. Her hands were light, moth-delicate, on his forehead. “Why do you shave your beard?”
“It makes me remember who I am, what I’m for. It keeps me from growing too proud.”
“What a load of nonsense!”
“Then the truth it must be. It’s hot. It’s red. It itches,” he mumbled.
Her laughter was sudden and heart-deep, a ripple of pure notes. “With golden hair and red beard, you’d look like a great marmalade cat.”
“Another reason to shave!”
Brenna followed the contours of his wide shoulders down his arms, where the water glistened among red-gold hairs. He sighed and felt the tension ebbing out of him. He melted back against the rim of the tub. Steam rose, hanging in the air a moment before drifting upward. She added a few more drops of scent to the water, and the oil floated toward him in little round drops, coating his chest and belly. His muscles soaked in it, reveled in the heat.
Soft lips half parted, she lathered the thick mat on his chest vigorously, her hands small and light against the hard flesh. She slid her hands down his belly, through crisp tangles of gold. Her soapy hands circled lower and lower. Though he sighed with pleasure, Leon didn’t think that was a good idea. Hot male need surged through his veins at her maddening touch. He asked himself if he was being seduced, or if she was…taking a stupid chance, if that was what was happening. He slid deeper into the tub, shielding his arousal slightly.
Slowly, gracefully as the fall of a feather, she moved to the end of the tub and motioned for a leg to come out. Ignoring his muffled protest, she leaned against the tub and began lathering it, sliding one finger along a deep scar hollow above the knee. His thigh shot jagged stabs and convulsed into shivering. He tried to relax his body, to go limp.
Brenna looked down, leaned back against her heels, shoving a lock of her black hair back over one shoulder. “Won’t you even talk to me?” she said in a small voice.
“There is nothing to talk about.”
“You mean, you have nothing to say to me.”
Leon knew he had missed something there. She would not meet his eyes. She seemed strangely tense: a coiled spring. He thought that she was angry; but why should she be? She was female. There was no accounting for her moods.
“That is not at all what I meant.”
“But it is!”
Leon frowned at her, wishing he knew what had happened. One moment she had been open and friendly; the next she exuded all the fire of a woman scorned. He rolled his eyes and sat up, sighing with exasperation.
“I will not play this game.”
“I will not let you turn this back on me.” There was an edge to her voice now. “You’re the one who—”
“This is not the time—”
“Not the time? You must be joking! There is nothing more important for us to do.”
For a moment things stayed as they were, balanced on a knife’s edge of Brenna’s temper and his nerves. Then he felt the anger unwind, slowly, into a quieter disturbance. A few more breaths. “Isn’t there?”
Without warning, she poured a dipper of herb-scented water over his head. He swallowed hard, half choking, gulped air and outrage, blinked water from his eyes, and snapped two pungent words.
“Oh—you are annoyed—you have a tongue like an ox whip!” His first impulse was to upend her and apply a hand to her derriere. Then she grinned at him with disarming candor. “Forgive me, but I get carried away sometimes!”
Leon snorted and blew water from his mouth. “How dare you—” It came as a half shriek, so disgraceful that it shattered all his anger. Laughter rose to fill the void: breathless, helpless laughter that loosened all his bones and left him half choking.
Her own laughter died with his, but a smile lingered; her eyes danced. “’Tis a ritual to drown the fleas!”
“Blast your impudence!” He surged to his feet and flung hair out of his eyes in a spray of water. A shower of droplets flew in a great arc to land on her gown, the sodden fabric outlining her bosom, leaving little to his imagination. He reached for the linen she was holding, and snatched it ’round himself, splashing the floor as he stepped out.
“Perhaps
