Chapter Four #2
She gaped at him. Gaped. He expected her to remain in a room with a naked man? He expected her to touch him?
“Close your mouth. You look like a trout.”
“But...I c-can’t. I can’t b-bathe you.”
“You can. And you will.” His eyes glimmered with something other than humor. The unspoken threat hummed in the stony chamber. “You may want to turn around while I undress, unless you want an early education.” He began to unbutton his shirt.
With an undignified eep, Violet whirled and showed him her back until she heard the splash and his gusty sigh.
“All right, girl. Get to work. Scrub my back.” He gestured to a chunk of soap and a sponge on a small table.
She picked them up, approached the tub and knelt behind him, trying not to stare at the bunching muscles, the broad expanse of tanned skin.
She couldn’t help but notice it was covered with scars.
Long and short, crisscrossing over one another.
As though he’d been brutally beaten and lashed time after time after—
“Did you close the door?”
Her bubbling sympathy evaporated in a rush. She stuck her tongue out at him but only because he couldn’t see. Then, with a heavy sigh, she levered herself off the floor and closed the door. Well, slammed it.
His chuckle annoyed her more.
He leaned forward and peeped at her over his shoulder. “Come along now. My back isn’t going to scrub itself.”
She took her place behind him again, careful not to look at his broad, furry chest as she approached. She wet the soap and sponge and created a lather. Being very careful not to touch him, she began to scour his back.
He winced. “Not so hard.”
His plaintive tone probably shouldn’t have sent a shard of evil satisfaction through her but it did. This man had been a boor to her from the moment he’d found her on the floor in Callum MacAllister’s cottage. She dug deeper.
He lurched forward. “Ouch!”
“Hold still,” she muttered, making a wide swath across the ridged skin. “You’re filthy. I need to scrub.”
“I am not filthy.”
“You are. Stop wriggling.”
Amazingly, he did, though her efforts bordered on abuse. But my, it felt good.
When she started on his neck and ears, he caught her wrist. “All right. I think that’s enough.”
“I’m not done.”
“Oh, you’re not done.” He tugged her around to the side of the tub so she faced him. She focused on his crooked nose, schooled her attention not to drift lower. “Now it’s time for you to scrub my front.”
She really disliked his tone. There was mischief—and something much darker—coiling in there. “Fine.” She dropped to her knees and wet the sponge again, but rather than dunking it, merely skimmed the surface of the water.
Fortunately the bath was murky so she couldn’t see anything. But she knew what was down there and she didn’t want to find it by accident. She trained her attention on his chest and—
Her heart lurched.
A long, nasty scar scored him. Like a puckered lightning bolt, it made its jagged way from his left nipple down to his belly. Her pulse skittered. Her breath snagged in her throat. She’d seen a scar like that once before.
A scar exactly like that.
Her gaze snapped back to his face. She looked at him. Really looked at him, perhaps for the first time. Her mouth went dry. The gray eyes laced by thick black lashes. The broad, smiling mouth. The curve of his jaw.
It couldn’t be. Could it?
“W-where did you get that scar?”
He glanced down and stilled. Annoyance flickered across his features. “Every man has scars.”
“Not-not like that.” She sat back on her haunches. She didn’t realize she was squeezing the sponge until water seeped through her skirts.
“All right. A knife fight.”
“Knives doona cut like that.” It was uneven and rippled, as though the flesh and been shorn off in places and sliced in others.
“Well, it was a goddamn knife fight. I was in a vicious battle with a man in an alley. I gutted him.” His lip curled into a sneer. “Does it frighten you, my lady?”
“Nae.” But that was a lie. It did frighten her. Because Ewan, her friend, the boy who had saved her, had gotten an eerily similar wound rescuing her from a watery grave. And surely this wasn’t Ewan. It couldn’t be.
Ewan was gentle and sweet. He had liked her, maybe loved her. He had kissed her. And this man... This man had taken her prisoner and mauled her and put her to work.
And she hated him.
He couldn’t be Ewan. He couldn’t. It would break her heart.
“Goddamn it, girl, finish washing me. The water’s getting cold,” he barked.
But she couldn’t. She needed to know. She had to know.
“It wasna a knife. It was ice.” A whisper, but he heard it. He froze, his gaze locked to hers. “You jumped in and found me in the water. Lifted me out. But you couldna get out yourself.”
“I doona know what you’re babbling about.”
But he did. She could see it in his eyes. There, for a flash of an instant, she saw that boy in his eyes.
She licked suddenly dry lips. “Ewan? Is it you?”
He rose from the tub in an unholy rush. She didn’t have time to glance away. The vision of his naked body, hard and lean, scarred and perfect, burned on her brain. He grabbed a cloth and covered his loins.
“This bath is over. Get out.”
She stood. Tried desperately not to tremble. “It is you. It is.”
“Get out. Go!”
“What happened to you, Ewan?”
A dark cloud lowered on his already stormy brow. “What happened to me? You mean how did I become the beast that I am?” The vitriol in his voice made her shake but she didn’t back down.
“No, Ewan. Where did you go? No one would tell me and I always wondered...”
Every muscle in his body tensed, vibrated. Violet knew because she could see them all, a magnificent panoply. She should have been afraid. She should have been horrified. She should have skittered away like a frightened little rabbit. But she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t run.
She knew—knew—her Ewan would never hurt her.
Indeed, as he stared at her, his fury passed. He scrubbed a palm over his broad face. “Go,” he croaked. His tone was laced with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. Desolation? Grief? “Just go.”
This time, she did.