She drew her hand backwards and forwards across his skin, lost in her own rhythm. How smooth his skin was to her touch, just like olive satin. Then, when she ran her fingers over the tops of his shoulders towards his chest, she felt that little sprinkling of coarse hairs. Finally she moved to his neck, rubbing, in cream up each side of his vertebrae, stopping just short of the lowest black curls. There was one in particular, slightly longer than the rest, nestling endearingly in his nape —
'You know, it's quite uncanny.' The lazy murmur made her jump.
'What is?'
'The way you keep insisting on action replays of the Tristan story.'
'How do you mean?' she asked warily.
'Well, Iseult gives him a herbal bath to heal his wounds—he'd just seen off a jumbo-sized serpent at the time, I seem to remember. Just one difference, though.'
'Oh, and what's that?' She was not fooled for a moment by his languid tone.
'After the massage she joins him in the tub. Have you ever been in a whirlpool bath, Petra?'
'No—no, I h
aven't.'
'It's amazingly soothing, I promise you.' His voice curled insidiously around her.
'Yes, I'm sure it is—I'll have to try one some time.' She was pleased at how expressionless her voice was. Even so, she moved well clear of his reach before screwing the cap back on the arnica.
'I've brought a comfrey poultice as well, and a crepe bandage,' she went on briskly.
'What for? I don't need a bandage on my shoulder.'
'No, of course not. It's for your wrist.'
'Ah, yes, of course—my wrist,' he agreed smoothly.
'But I don't want to get the bandage wet,' she began doubtfully.
'I'll get out, then.' And before she could move he flicked off the taps, casually hoisted himself to his feet and—quite deliberately, she w a s certain—stepped out of the b a t h right beside her, so that a long tanned leg brushed against her thigh, leaving n streak of foaming bubbles across her jeans. All at once the spacious bathroom was very small, and as he reached for a towel she scrambled to her feet.
She snatched up the bowl. 'I—I'll take this downstairs.' But, even though she banged the door behind her, she still caught the sound of his soft, mocking laugh . . . She heard him coming, and began very carefully piling the mashed-up comfrey leaves on to the lint. Out of the corner of her eye she could see bare legs and feet, and when she reluctantly turned to face him saw that he was wearing a short—very short—navy towelling robe, so loosely belted that it had fallen open, revealing a great deal of torso.
'Hold out your arm, please.' She slapped the wet poultice on to his wrist, then tightly bandaged it and secured it with a safety-pin. 'Is that all right?'
He flexed his hand. 'Fine.'
'Good.' She began rolling up the rest of the bandage.
'Of course, you'll have to drive me this afternoon.'
'Drive you? You mean, down into the village? But if you need any shopping I can—'
'Not the village, no. I'm going to Penzance.'
'Penzance?' She almost shrieked the word. 'But I can't take you there —' it's impossible.'
'Why?' he demanded flatly.
'Well ... 'the thought of being confined in a car with Jared for several hours, especially in the mood he was clearly in, was simply too much ' . . . I've told you, I've got to deliver those Valentine cakes today.'
'Truro isn't much out of the way. —I shan't mind you making a detour.'
'Well, that's really considerate of you.'