Chapter 10
Rosie’s hands shook—not with cold, although she was now quite damp, thanks to draping the soaked Bull across her—as she stripped out of her own winter wear and hung it beside his near the blazing hearth.
Now the others had left, Bull had stumbled toward the fire and sunk to his knees in front of it, reaching for the warmth.
Her heart was pounding against her rib cage. Not just in fear for him, but determination too.
Rosie sank to her haunches beside him, and as Bull almost toppled forward, spreading his palms against the stone of the ancient hearth, she reached for his boots. Oh, why were these knots so tiny, so frozen? Her fingers felt leaden, the shoelaces impossibly tight—
“Knife.” Bull managed past a tight jaw. “B-Boot.”
He wanted her to use a knife? Oh! There was a knife, tucked into the top of his boot! Well, that was most helpful. She pulled it free gratefully and began to saw at the laces.
First one boot, then the other, were thrown into the corner. They might be ruined, which would be a pity indeed, but she had more important things to worry about.
“Come on, now,” she urged, pulling on Bull’s shoulders and urging him upright. “We need to...get this…” She struggled to pull his jacket down his arms. “Off you. Excellent.” The jacket landed atop the boots.
Rosie had no memory of the time when her brother was a bairn.
It was possible that at some point during those years, she’d helped her mother or the nursemaids undress Beavis, whom she only recalled as being a loud little red faced arsehole.
If she ever had helped, that would have been her only other experience undressing a male.
Bull was…understandably different.
For one thing, he was full grown.
For another, he was soaking wet, kneeling as close to the roaring fire as he could get without clambering over the logs.
And for another, she was quite fond of him, which was a simplistic phrase to describe her true feelings. But that full grown aspect she’d originally mentioned became quite obvious—and quite distracting—as she removed more and more clothing.
The buttons on his shirt, frozen to the fabric, were lost to the knife in their turn. When his naked skin was revealed to the warmth of the fire, they both shuddered, him likely from relief.
And Rosie?
She couldn’t stop staring. Even as she tried to keep her movements brisk and efficient, she couldn’t help but stare at the array of scars and marks—and was that a tattoo?—which covered his skin. Her fingers traced a puckered mark on his shoulder, even as she helped lift him upright.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, his head falling forward. “Heavy…help ye…”
“Oh, shut up, Bull.” Rosie was feeling remarkably out of sorts, which was why she snapped at him. “We just need to keep you alive for now, yes?”
His snort might’ve been a laugh, which eased the tension in her chest a little. Together they managed to get him upright, and her hands only shook a little—a lot, you liar—as she reached to unbutton his trousers.
“Rose—” His hand covered hers, and she glanced up at his pinched face.
“Forget propriety, you cockleheaded wombleberry. You need to be warm.” She whirled about, grabbed a cup of the hot tea the maids had left, and thrust it into his hands. “Here. Drink that. Now.”
“Aye-aye, gen-general,” he managed, trying not to spill as he lifted the cup.
She used his distraction to unbutton his trousers and slide them down his legs, definitely not thinking about the muscular shivering thighs she had just unveiled. Rosie supported him at the hips as he kicked the fabric aside, then reached for the fluffiest towel in the pile.
By the time Bull had finished his second cup of tea and she’d dried his hair and body with the towels, wrapping another one around his waist—hadn’t that been embarrassing, to help him strip off his smalls before he’d settled down to sit on the bed?
—his violent shivering had eased and his eyes were peacefully closed.
Rosie glanced at the tray of food, but decided his body likely needed the rest more. Outside large flakes of snow had begun to fall in the darkness, and she frowned in concentration. What did she need to do for him next?
Her entire life, she’d been taken care of.
First at Endymion, then at school or the London townhouse. Even when she visited Merida, it had been her older cousin leading her around the city.
Here and now, though?
Rosie had done what needed to be done, and she would continue to do so. She might have been taken care of for the first twenty-one years of her existence, but she wasn’t useless. She wasn’t helpless. She was going to take care of him.
Nodding emphatically, she brushed Bull’s hair back from his forehead. “Give me that,” she murmured, taking the empty cup from his limp fingers and nudging him back. “Lie down, Bull.”
He made a weak protest, those gray eyes opening just enough to watch her lift his bare legs onto the mattress, but she hushed him again.
“Here, roll just a bit—there.” She pulled back the blankets and tucked them around him. “I will go ask for a hot brick—”
“Nay.” He snagged her hand, his eyes already half-lidded once more. “Dinnae—dinnae leave me.”
Slowly Rosie’s smile bloomed, and she squeezed his hand. “Never, Bull,” she vowed in a whisper.
And so she stood there, bent awkwardly, holding his hand beside the bed, feeling his pulse slow into a steady comforting beat…until she knew he was asleep. Only then did she tuck his arm under the covers, spread another blanket over him, and bend to press a kiss on his forehead.
Please do not catch a fever. She had no real experience nursing the sick, but she would if it was what was necessary to keep him safe.
With a sigh—she hadn’t realized how chilled and bone-weary she was—Rosie turned away. The soup was still warm, and she forced herself to sit and eat it along with a hunk of bread as she watched Bull’s chest softly rising and falling beneath the blankets.
Then she covered the rest of the bread and cheese for later, and began to perform her evening ablutions as well as she could.
Thank goodness this traveling gown was easy to remove on her own.
There was a lace-trimmed nightgown at the bottom of her trunk, but the thought of sifting through all her belongings…
no, she could wear her chemise and bloomers tonight—
Her gaze strayed to the bed.
The single bed.
Well of course there is only one bed. You told the proprietor Bull was your betrothed, did you not?
Yes.
Rosie straightened her shoulders.
There was only one bed, and she would not be sleeping on the uncomfortable-looking sofa just to maintain some ill-defined sense of propriety.
She’d seen Bull naked, after all! One touch of her fingertips told her how little the poor man had warmed since she’d tucked him in. He just wasn’t producing enough heat.
It was up to her to help him again.
So, after she’d managed her evening tasks and quietly set the room to rights again—as much as possible, at least—Rosie peeled back the blankets and climbed into the bed beside him. This time her shudder wasn’t simply excitement; he was cold!
But still, it was no great hardship to press herself along his side, to roll over and wrap her arm around his middle. Bull murmured something in his sleep, welcoming her in and shifting his arm so she could rest her head on his shoulder.
Now she was lying on her side, and everyone knew it was impossible to sleep on one’s side without a pillow between one’s knees, right? Perhaps Bull’s leg could act as a pillow, in this case.
So slowly, tentatively, Rosie moved her leg over his. She pressed the bottom of her bare foot against his calf, trying to warm it a bit, then allowed her knee to relax against his thigh.
There.
Yes.
In this position, she’d be able to offer him a little warmth. He was really quite comfortable, was he not, as a pillow? Or perhaps the long day of travel and the horrible franticness of the last few hours, was finally catching up with her.
Rosie decided she’d allow herself to lie like this, draped over him, just for a short while. Just until he warmed up a bit. Then she would roll over and put some more respectable distance between them.
Just…just a few…more minutes…
Bull woke slowly.
It was a rare luxury, and he allowed himself to catalog the reasons he felt so damned comfortable at that moment:
There were embers crackling in the hearth across the room. Snowflakes seemed to be hitting the windowpanes.
He was warm. After the bone-deep cold of the river, the way he’d felt his body slowly shutting down as a woman had struggled to get him to safety, he’d wondered if that would be possible again. So he was warm, and happy, and—
And there was a soft, supple body atop his.
Bull was on his back, completely nude. This was his normal state of sleeping, but he could feel the towel tangled beneath his arse, and remembered he’d fallen asleep wearing it for modesty. Now the thing had fallen off, and his cock was making itself part of the conversation as loudly as possible.
It was also quite warm and happy.
Mainly because of the aforementioned body on top of him.
He didn’t need to guess; his Rose’s unmistakable scent—that faint citrus flavor—would follow him to his grave, he suspected, watery or otherwise.
Only now did he remember her climbing in next to him last night, remembered thinking he should fight her ridiculous decision, but it had been so damned cold…
And if that didn’t tell him who was lying on him, her soft little whimpers of pleasure did.
Because his Rose was stretched out across his body, her cheek resting on his shoulder, her palms pressed on his chest, and her cunny…
Dear Christ on the Cross, her cunny.
Bull did his best to keep his breathing even. He definitely kept his eyes closed. Because if his Rose was awake, he didn’t want her to know he was too. He didn’t want to do anything which would cause her to stop.