“I-it’s scented with herbs only. Smell it.”
He pulled her hand to his face and sniffed. The fragrance was pleasant, like green fields in springtime. “Very well,” he said, releasing his hold.
“If you’ll lean your head back again…”
Closing his eyes, he did so. Her hands glided over his hair; then her fingers dug beneath to gently scrape his scalp. The sensation was so pleasurable, he moaned. “You’ve a gentle touch, wife,” he said, remembering to give her praise.
“Thank you, milord,” she said, her tight voice betraying her worry.
A smile tipped the corners of his lips. Aye, she should be alarmed. Her silken touch was countering the effects of the warm water and ale.
Margaret chewed on her lip, wondering how long she would have to wait for the water and the drink to strip his oak of its bark. In the meantime, she listened to his murmured praise and moans and wondered why his pleasure drew the tips of her nipples into hard points and made her woman’s furrow moist.
Sweet Jesus! If merely touching his hair could do this, she would surely perish of ague if she were forced to bathe the rest of him!
Knowing she had already spent overlong washing his thick hair, she reached for another pitcher of water, this time testing the temperature to make sure she wouldn’t cause him any more discomfort—however satisfying his reactions had been with her first rinses. She poured the contents of another pitcher over his head and watched as the warm water rinsed the dirty, gray film from his hair. By the time she’d finished, she realized his hair was so dark a brown it was nearly black, with strands that glinted red in the candlelight.
“I’ll scrub your back now,” she said, hoping when she was done that he’d be satisfied and finish the rest himself. Her stomach was so tight, she felt as though she’d eaten a green apple.
He leaned forward, and she dipped a cloth into the water, and then worked some of the herbal soap into lather before smoothing the rag over the broad expanse of his back. She scrubbed hard, partly hoping to cause him more discomfort, but mostly because she wanted the job done quickly. She didn’t dare venture below the water line. What little she understood about men’s anatomy warned her that touching him there would render her plot useless. When she was finished, she held out the cloth to him.
He looked over his shoulder and didn’t say a word. The arch of his eyebrow said it all. Blast his hide! His challenge laid down, she rinsed the cloth and applied more soap, and then circled the tub to face him.
Aware her breasts rose above the rim of the tub, even though she knelt to hide the rest of her body from his knowing gaze, she laid the cloth against his chest and scoured his skin in circles. The cloth did not provide enough of a barrier between her palm and his hard chest. Everywhere she touched, she learned the hard contours of his muscles and the warmth of his skin.
Hers became so heated, she was sure she grew fevered. She knew her cheeks flushed, and a glance downward confirmed her breasts suffered a similar malady.
Except for the ripples and spasms of his muscles as she cleaned his flesh, he never moved. But the heat of his gaze followed her everywhere, scorching her lips, burning the tips of her breasts, and lower, when she rose on her knees to scrub his shoulders and underarms.
She reached for his left hand, intent on digging dirt from beneath his nails, and didn’t notice at first when his right hand slipped softly over the top of her breast. When she did, her breath caught and held, and then her gaze rose to his face.
His expression was hard and assessing, and then his fingers glided lower until they smoothed over her nipple.
Margaret forgot how to breathe. Her breast tightened, almost to the point of pain, but she didn’t want him to stop, until his thumb and forefinger plucked her nipple. Then she jumped and placed her hand over his to make him halt.
Without saying a word, Lord Roland returned his hand to the edge of the tub, and he leaned back his head, his chest rising sharply with his indrawn breath.
Taking it as a cue to resume his bath, she washed
his neck and around his ears, and tried to ignore the disturbing sound of his breaths and the rigid muscles beneath her fingertips.
Thankful when at last her task was done, she rinsed his chest and back and sat back on her haunches.
A small, tight smile and a shake of his head brought a surge of anger boiling to the surface. She was becoming ill, and he wanted to be bathed like a babe!
“You’ve missed a few spots, wife,” he said, his voice like silk and gravel.
You pompous, sodding bas—
She bit back the retort. Her reticence was her only defense left. “I’ve cleaned behind your ears and under your arms. Surely, I’m finished now.”
“I would have you cleanse the rest of me. It will help you overcome your fear of my body. You’ll find I’m made like any other man.” With that, he gripped the sides of the tub and hauled himself up to stand in the center. She glanced a long way up his body, and her heart stopped.
His limb didn’t droop like a willow’s.
Chapter Two
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