Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

He managed her petticoats with some semblance of grace. And when he’d removed the last one—when she was stripped to her shift—he knelt before her. She reached out and set her hands in his hair. It was disheveled—she’d made it so, she realized, grasping his head to hers in that frenzied coupling downstairs. It was soft to her touch, and still too long. He took the hem of her shift in his hands and then, as he stood, stripped it off her.

Finally, she was naked before him. He held her last muslin undergarment balled up in his hands and looked at her. He just looked, his eyes traveling from her legs up her waist, to her br**sts. She felt her ni**les point under his gaze.

He made a motion with his finger. “Would you…” He paused and swallowed. “Would you turn around?”

She did. He hissed as she did so. His hand fell on her shoulder. “What’s this?”

His fingers rubbed a sore spot. “Harcroft threw me against the doorframe in the hallway.”

He made no response. Instead, he pressed his hand over that spot, as if he could simply warm the bruise away. His hands skimmed down her back, cupped her bu**ocks. They came to rest, once again, on her hips. “What are these?”

She glanced down her own body. There, on either side of her hips, was a faint red mark. She knew where she’d got those without even thinking. She could still feel his hands there, pressing her, holding her, as he’d thrust into her. “That’s where you held me downstairs.”

“Oh, God. Kate. I’m sorry. I’m no better than Harcroft, doing you injury when—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It didn’t hurt. And if you think that I shall let you treat me as if I’m made of glass, you’re mistaken. You told me I was strong. Well, don’t see bruises when you look at me. See me.”

He looked in her eyes and then nodded once, jerkily.

For all that controlled power in his movement—for all the strength of the arms that had held her up against the wall—he was still gentle. He turned from her and took off his own coat, and then his waistcoat. He folded up the cuffs of his sleeves, matter-of-factly, as if he didn’t realize the effect that glimpse of wrist—masculine and strong, with that gold fuzz of hair—would have on her.

He turned back, and whatever emotion had gripped him earlier, he’d banished it. At least, Kate could not see it on his features any longer. He walked to her and then lifted her in his arms. She fit there, falling against him. And then he walked her to the bath and laid her gently in.

She hissed as the hot water enveloped her. Lilac-scented steam swirled about her. Next to her, he dipped a cloth in the water and then rubbed a bit of soap into it. The bar released a powerful scent, complex and unexplainable. It smelled of cultivated gardens and civilized walks; simultaneously, it reminded her of flowers in a riot across a field, not hedged in or clipped into compliance.

He really did intend to give her a bath. The rough fabric of the washcloth rubbed against her neck, over and over. He massaged her over and over, her shoulders, her back. She could feel his ministrations down her spine. Her every muscle loosened, soaking in the heat of the bath and the pleasure of his touch. And then he was washing her br**sts, the undersides in sweeps of the cloth, the ni**les with tender touches.

He focused on her arms with as much care as he had her br**sts. He pulled her foot from the tub and covered it in suds, massaging the worries from her; then the other foot. And then his cloth dipped under the water and his hands went up her legs, slowly but surely, past her calves, her knees. Her thighs parted for him, and the cloth dipped between her legs.

There. Yes, there. She was still sensitive for him. He would touch her more. He would join her here in the copper tub—don’t ask where, there was no room for him.

“Ned?”

He pulled the pins from her hair in answer and dipped a pitcher into the water. His hands shielded her face from the splash as he poured the heated liquid over her head. His fingers found her scalp. There should have been no touch more intimate than that of his fingers between her legs, but somehow this was it—the feel of his hands rubbing her scalp, finding the tension she’d stored there and releasing it into the water. Another splash, as he rinsed her off.

She blinked the water from her eyes and looked at him.

He was watching her with a startling intensity.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She felt not just clean, but free, unbowed by any of the worries that had plagued her in recent weeks. “Thank you, Ned.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

She stood, and water cascaded down her shoulders. His attention was riveted on her. He stared at her, as if she were Venus arisen from the sea—as if she were one of those paintings where Venus had dry hair that curled beguilingly, not wet, bedraggled strings.

He didn’t seem to notice the difference.