“It’s going to get wet,” she warned.
He shrugged, his chainmail glinting in the moonlight. “It matters not.” Taking her hand, he helped her recline on the rock. “I will not ask if ’tis comfortable. But is it at least tolerable?”
Beth shifted around a bit until her spine no longer rested upon a ridge in the hard stone. “It’s fine.” Turning her head, she felt a jolt when she saw him removing his mailed shirt. “What are you doing?”
“I do not wish my armor to become wet and rust. Although ’twould give my squire something more to do upon my return.” His mailed pants and his thick padded gambeson followed, leaving him in a soft shirt, trouser-like braies and hose.
Apparently medieval reenactors even wore authentic underwear.
Beth watched him wade into the water. Much to her astonishment, he didn’t even flinch. “The water is freezing. Won’t you be too cold?” she asked, tilting her head back as he moved around and knelt behind her.
The rock she lay upon only extended about a yard beyond the grassy bank, so the water did not quite reach his groin.
“I am accustomed to such.” Motioning for her to relax and stare up at the sky, he picked up her crusty braid and bent to examine it. “Unlike most of my men, I prefer to bathe daily whenever water is available. When not at one of my own keeps or my brother’s, I sometimes must resort to washing in whatever lake or stream is at hand, which is oft as cool or cooler than this one. And too, I am reluctant to trouble the servants with carrying bucket after bucket of hot water up to my solar every night.”
Evidently he had a brother who was into the whole dungeons and damsels thing, too.
“Beth?”
“Aye?”
“I cannot fathom how to remove the fastening at the end of your braid. There are no ribbons to untie or—”
“It’s elastic. Just pinch the hair above it and pull. It’ll come right off.”
“Will it not pain you, pulling your hair in such a fashion?”
“Nay. I do it all the time.” When he hesitated, she smiled. “Go ahead, Robert. It won’t hurt. I promise.”
He must have been careful even so, because she did not feel even the faintest tug on her braid before his hand appeared above her, holding the dark brown elastic band.
“Thank you.” That was probably the only tie she had with her. Afraid of losing it, Beth wound it around the middle finger of her right hand like a ring and rested both hands on her stomach.
Robert went to work on her hair, dunking the braid in the icy water, letting some of the dirt soften and rinse away before he gingerly began to untangle the long strands. When he cupped his hands and dribbled the first of many chilly drops on the hair at her temples and around her face, a shiver shook her, raising the hair on her arms.
“Wow. That is really cold.” She rubbed her arms. “I don’t know how you can stand it.”
One large hand smoothed the hair back from her face, gliding over the crown of her head. “Mayhap you should postpone your bath until we reach Fosterly and you can do so in warmth and comfort.”
“I can’t.” Her stomach soured. “I don’t want to wait that long. I need to wash the blood off.”
“I understand.” Leaning away, he reached for the shampoo.
Did he? she wondered. Did he know the fear and revulsion that filled her every time she glanced down at her stained clothing? Did he understand the terror that claimed her whenever she acknowledged that most, if not all, of the blood had drained from wounds on her own body? Wounds that should have killed her? Wounds that—defying all comprehension—no longer existed?
And did he sense the disgust that pummeled her when she admitted that some of the blood that coated her back could have sprayed from Vergoma when Josh had shot him with the Remington?
Robert could see unrest growing in Bethany.
A crease formed between her brows. Her hands began to fidget and pluck at her clothing in restless movements.
Twisting the top off the container of shampoo, he wondered what he could say that might ease her.
He tipped the bottle sideways. A white, pearlescent liquid flowed into his cupped palm as a sweet aroma rose up to envelope him. “A most pleasant fragrance,” he commented, bringing it closer to his nose for another sniff. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never used that one before. It was a free sample.”
Setting the bottle aside, he began to work the strange liquid into her hair. Almost immediately, a thick white foam grew and spread throughout her long locks.
“You are troubled,” he observed.
Her frown deepened.
“You may confide in me, Beth. Whatever words pass between us will go no further.” At least, he hoped they would not. If she told Alyssa that he had teased her about her breasts, Robert feared he would find himself spending a night in his brother’s dungeon.