Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

She paused, then looked at the tub; he quickly drew her gown down and freed her hands. She sighed and stepped out of the puddled cambric and kicked it to join his coats. "I suppose we'll fit."

They did, very comfortably. Just before she joined him in the blissfully hot water, Catriona went to a shelf and selected a jar, then returned to sprinkle its contents into the tub. Richard, surfacing from rinsing his hair, tensed as crystals hissed in the water, then relaxed as a delicious herbal scent filled the room.

After returning the jar to the shelf, Catriona stepped into the tub and sank down opposite him, then picked up the flannel. "Turn around." She gestured with her hand. "I'll scrub your back."

Richard complied; he closed his eyes in bliss as she scrubbed and kneaded the stiff muscles. She worked over his shoulders and upper back, then reached below the water.

He heard her hiss-an indrawn hiss of pain. Swinging around, he saw her shake her hand; he caught it-and saw the burned palm. What he said made her wince more.

"Lie back! Rest your hands on the edge." He took the flannel from her and quickly finished his own ablutions, then found the bar of soap she preferred-a tantalizing mix of summer flowers, the scent she always bore-and lathered the flannel.

And proceeded, ignoring her weak complaints, to wash her.

Catriona tried to struggle, then surrendered. She was in shock and she knew it-the shock of the fire-the shock of his totally unexpected return. The shock of seeing him plunge into the burning building, relief at his safe return. The horror of seeing flames licking his hair, the pain of her burned palms. She didn't know what she thought-she didn't know how she should respond, how she should react to any of it.

All she could do was flow with the tide, close her eyes and accept his ministrations, the steady, unhurried sweep of the flannel over her skin.

He was very thorough. Setting her legs wide apart, he sat between; he started with her face, caressing it gently, then laved her neck, then moved on to her shoulders, then extended each arm to lovingly cleanse it, all the way to her fingertips, carefully avoiding her raw palms. Leaving her hands propped on the tub's edge, he reached around her and stroked her shoulders, then the long planes of her back, the curves of her hips, the globes of her bottom in long lazy sweeps, lifting her easily in the water. Setting her down again, he reached for the soap.

From under heavy lids, she studied his face; his expression was deeply calm, like the surface of a fathomless pool. Calm was usually her province, but in the fright and flurry of the evening, she'd misplaced her inherent serenity. She'd lost her calm-but he'd found his. Or, she silently amended, could show his. He wasn't wearing any mask, any social cloak-this was as he was. The warrior who was most at home on the battlefield, in the heart of the fury-that was where he was most at ease. Where he was calmest.

Opening her weary senses, she closed her eyes and shamelessly drank in his calm, and felt it ease her. Let him press calm on her with every smooth caress of the soapy flannel as he gently, lovingly, washed her breasts, her waist, her gently rounded stomach. He moved steadily down, slowly, soothingly, washing every inch of her; by the time he reached her toes, she was floating on a warm tide.

She felt the water shift as he discarded the flannel, then he gripped her wrists and drew her up. Drew her toward him, lifted her so she sat on his thighs, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Her forearms sliding over his shoulders, she blinked her eyes wide as his arms closed around her and his lips found hers.

He kissed her gently, her wet breasts pressed to his wet chest, a thin layer of water sliding between their warmed bodies. Despite their aroused state, it was a soothing kiss. She kissed him back, in the same vein, simply grateful to feel his achingly familiar lips on hers.

Then he rose, Sifting her with him; her legs slid down and she was standing beside him. He reached for one of the pails left waiting and rinsed her, then repeated the performance on himself, using the last pail. She went to clamber out, but he was before her. He closed his hands about her waist and lifted her clear, setting her feet on the thick towel laid before the hearth. She accepted the towel he handed her gratefully, and ignored, as best she could, the flush that turned her skin a delicate rose, and the more pointed evidence of his arousal.

Revived, she quickly dried herself, then helped him mop his broad back. Standing behind him, she considered, then swiftly looped the towel around his hips and anchored it. "Sit," she said, prodding him toward the stool. "I want to neaten your hair."

He turned and looked at her with that unfathomable calm in his eyes, but consented to sit. She found a comb and scissors, and started snipping, removing the burnt and singed locks. Then she reached to brush the clipping from his shoulders, stopped, and peered. "You've got burns across your shoulders!"

He wriggled them. "Only minor ones."

"Humph! Well you can sit there a minute more while I salve them." She fetched the right pot from her supplies on the shelf; luckily, her fingers weren't burned, only her palms. She could grip things, could spread and knead; she carefully worked the salve into his burns. Then she stood back and surveyed his back more carefully.

"If you've finished soothing those burns, I have another burning part of my anatomy awaiting your attention."

The gravelly comment jerked her upright. "Yes, well." Quickly, she replaced the pot on the shelf. Half turning, she gestured to the bedchamber. "Come to bed, then."

His gaze fastened on her hand as he stood. "One moment."

He caught her hand, and inspected the raw redness. He swore, glared at her, then towed her back to the shelf. "Where's that salve?"

"My hands will be all right."

"Ah-ha!"

Catriona frowned as he lifted the pot down. "What happened to your burning anatomy?"

"I can suffer a few minutes more. Hold out your hands."

Trapped between him and the door, she had to comply. "This is quite unnecessary."

He glanced at her briefly. "All healers are supposed to be terrible patients."

She humphed, but held her tongue, surprised to find how cool and soothing