Chapter 11 Boiling #2
“Same, miss, same. And you have my gratitude for saving Farmer Paxton’s sheep. You’ll have his, too.”
“I hope you get a new alchemist soon.”
“Perhaps I’ll try my hand at it.”
Sybil bit her bottom lip, her feet wanting to dance.
“I’m going to hug you.” And she did, squeezing tight.
Mrs. Paisley laughed as Sybil released her, and Sybil stepped into the sunshine.
“I’ll visit again. And I’ll tell you everything I know, but you must share some secrets of the anvil with me, too. ”
Mrs. Paisley promised, and Sybil set her steps toward the inn. She was whistling by the time she reached her bedchamber. She needed to pack and perhaps call for a bath before they left, and—
What was that?
She put her ear against the door across the hall—Apollo’s door—and heard… a bubbling cauldron? No. What was going on in there? She knocked.
Apollo’s muffled voice, from the other side of the door, cried, “Enter!”
She did. And froze in the doorway. “Oh!” Her hand flew up to cover her mouth.
Apollo lounged in a copper tub placed before a barren fireplace.
His muscled arms stretched along the sides of the tub, and his head rested on the back edge of it, face tilted toward the ceiling.
The water bubbled against his naked chest, and his knees were drawn up, forming mountains that popped out of the hectic surface of the water.
Which was boiling.
He… he… he was everywhere golden and taut, muscled and sinewy.
“Close the damn door,” he said, lowering his face, opening his eyes. He saw her immediately. “You’re not the maid.”
She closed the door behind her, then hid her face against the wood, putting her back to him. “You told a maid to enter knowing you’re in the bath? Naked?”
“Don’t screech. I’m having a spectacularly bad day.”
“But why are you boiling?”
“I don’t know!”
“What happened? Between the gate and now?”
“I came back here but I was… riled. I felt all this… energy coursing through me. I couldn’t cool down. So I stole a metal tankard from the pub across the street and started working it with the fire. But… but the fire burned out or… I used it all, and the damned tankard is there.”
She didn’t dare peek to see what he meant. The image of him seemed burned on the back of her eyelids. Would his skin feel as warm as it looked? As smooth? Would the muscle beneath it be as hard?
“And,” he said, “I think I’ve grown several inches in the last hour. And I feel like I could walk round the world a hundred times and never tire.”
“You’ll crash soon.”
“The water in the tub is boiling, Sybil.”
She laughed, slammed her hand over her mouth to smother it.
“It’s not funny.”
She snorted.
“It’s not!”
She collapsed against the door laughing. “It’s Apollo stew,” she wheezed between laughs.
“Har har,” he drawled.
She dropped to the floor and leaned against the door, holding her belly. “Should I add some carrots?”
Water sloshed. Water sluiced.
She opened her eyes, just a crack, curious and wiping away a tear.
Only to see Apollo rising from the water like Poseidon. Every inch of him—every inch—naked and hard and stepping out of the tub.
She scrambled to her feet. As he strode toward her, muscles bunching, she lunged around him, aiming for safety, wherever that was. Intent glowed in his eyes, and she did not want to discover what, exactly, he intended to do.
There! Past the bed, on the table near the window. She dove for it, grasped it, and whirled around just as he switched direction to give chase. She held Governor Grimm between them.
“Come no closer or the plant suffers.”
Apollo froze. He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would!” She inched around him, one eye on the door, the other on him. Not because—sweet Hestia—he was a sight worth looking at, but because she didn’t trust him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I want to see if you make the water boil, too.”
“You will not throw me in there.”
“Steel yourself, princess, because you’re going for a bath, and I don’t want you burned.” His eyes gleamed greedy gold, and he lunged for her.
Clasping the plant to her breast, she squealed and ran around him. His arms closed on air, and she made a triumphant path for the door and—
Stepped on something oddly shaped and sharp.
She yelped. Her ankle twisted. She fell, arms pinwheeling wildly.
One wrist hit the tub. She reached for the floor with the other, and the heel of her hand met hard wood.
Then the rest of her did. No time to scream.
A step, a twist, a fall, air knocked out of her lungs, then she lay there still and silent, stunned, breathless for an eternity as the world slowed to a stop.
It sped up again as she finally dragged a breath into her lungs.
Hands were on her, lifting her up, holding her—strong yet gentle. “Good God. Good God, Sybil. What happened? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Where does it hurt?”
She rolled over, found herself cradled in Apollo’s arms, held fast against his naked, still wet body.
And the pain almost didn’t matter. She almost didn’t notice the screeching in her wrist, the jarring of her body, and the throbbing in her ankle.
But her foot made his hard muscle and warm, soft skin insignificant.
Because it felt wet and cold and very, very wrong.