He moved into her just a little, just enough that her heat merged with his own. Her scent of honeysuckle and myrrh filled his senses. He grew hypnotized by the rivulets of water racing down her back and under the hem of her gown, disappearing into crevices he desperately wanted to touch.
“The water still smells of soap. It smells wonderful,” she said softly, breathily, and obviously reaching for a safe subject to take their minds off their current situation.
“Aye.” He dug his free hand into his thigh, the pain grounding him and helping him to focus on the task at hand. “That is the magic of the bowl. As long as I wish it, the water shall remain. But what do you smell when I soap you down?”
“Mint and clean, fresh soap.”
He smiled, for she was clearly still scenting him. The waters of this bowl were also a bit in the way of an aphrodisiac. Not in the sense that it could be consumed, but that the scents within were what your lover might wish to smell on you.
“That is not what I smell.”
She turned her neck, gazing at him with wide, innocent eyes. “What do you smell?”
“I smell the perfumes of your people. Your lands. Wild honeysuckle and rich myrrh.”
Nixie’s nails dug into his forearm. The air quivered with the rising awareness of each other.
“This madness—”
Robin wasn’t sure what he meant to say, for suddenly a man’s voice exclaimed in startled wonder, “Milord!”
Jerking to his feet, Robin twirled on the intruder, reaching for his dagger, ready to slice the man in two until common sense and propriety took hold of him. Dropping his hand from his belt, he stared at the flaxen-haired Cuthbert, the cook of his camp.
A gangly beanpole of a buck, Cuthbert was barely nine and ten years and his crimson stained cheeks attested to the fact that he was, in all likelihood, virginal in the ways of a woman.
In his hand quivered the tray of tea and biscuits.
“I apologize, milord, I did not mean to—”
Robin shook his head, and flicked his wrist toward the desk. “Leave the tray there and go, young pup. There was no harm done.”
Green eyes flicked down toward where Nixie still rested with her back exposed. She was now dabbing the rag along the front of her, but Robin could make out the jitters of nerves dancing down her spine.
“Go, man. And be quick about it.” Robin jerked his head toward the flap.
“Aye, then.” Cuthbert quickly laid the tray down and ran out of there.
The sight made him have to suppress a hearty chuckle.
“Is he gone?” she asked softly.
“Aye, pet, he’s gone. Bloody hell,” he groused. His cock stand, however, was far from gone. Blowing out an anxious breath, Robin retrieved his shirt and slipped it back on. Best not to touch her again; touching her led to places they couldn’t go.
With one final flick of the rag on her face, she tossed it into the bowl, drew her sleeves back up her body, and readjusted her top. Turning to him just a moment later, fully dressed and innocent looking, except for the twin spots of scarlet staining her cheeks.
“Food.” Robin pointed and then backed away.
Having her sleep in his tent was going to test every ounce of self-control he possessed, but there was no alternative. The mere fact that she was so bonny was a problem, but add to that the maiden fair was far from ordinary, no, she must not be allowed to wander unchaperoned among his men.
Finger combing his hair down, he walked toward the flap.
“Where are you going?” She stood with her arms by her side, gazing at him with accusation evident in her eyes.
Knowing that if he looked back at her, he’d be by her side in an instant, he grabbed onto the edge of the tent. “I need to talk with my men. Eat. Bathe. Nap. Only do not leave the tent.”
She laughed pitifully. “You know I couldn’t even if you’d not just ordered me not to. I’m tethered to that stupid lamp. I can’t go beyond the outskirts of your camp without slamming up against a wall of magic.”
With a growl, he stepped on through. “I’ll be back, genie.”
*
The moment his men spotted him without Nixie they were upon him.
“Who is she?” whispered one.
“Why have we never heard of a Maid Marian before?” asked another.
“Shove off.” John’s barrel-chested voice boomed as he shoved through the crowd to get to Robin. “And so”—his friend clapped him on the shoulder—“now that I have ye alone, you’ll do well to tell me the truth, old friend. For we both know that woman is not who she claims she is.”
Lifting a brow, Robin turned on his man. “And you’re certain of this how?”
John’s look was droll. There was a smear of grease around his plump lips. His friend had obviously been sampling the night’s supper.
Rolling his eyes, Robin headed toward the armory tent to retrieve a fresh bow and quiver of arrows for target practice.
John was still doggedly on his heels when he came out.
“Well, come on then,” Robin groused, headed toward the target practice area.