Chapter Six #3
“Excuse me. Did you speak?” Grayson asked, fixing the older man with an arrogant stare.
Tom must have a reckless disregard for his safety, because Grayson was in no mood to be badgered.
He had been shot, abducted, and bedridden for the first time in his life.
On top of all that, his unsatisfied desires made him unusually irritable.
“I got my eye on you, and that’s a fact,” Tom declared.
Although Grayson knew a grudging admiration for the old man’s protectiveness, he could not allow such insolence to continue. He rose to his feet with a deceptively lazy grace.
“I fear you will have to take your eye off of me because I’m going to have a bath, and I would like as much privacy as can be obtained in the kitchen.
” Distaste crept into Grayson’s voice at the thought of such accommodations, but he needed to wash, and he had been informed that the house lacked the proper plumbing.
Nor would any servants be able to prepare a tub for his use.
The old man stood and scowled up at him. “Well, don’t think I’m going to help you. You can fill those buckets yourself. Toughen you up a bit,” he added, his tone taunting.
Before Tom could draw another breath, Grayson grabbed hold of his shirtfront and slammed him up against the wall. The old man blinked and shook his head, as if to clear it, while Grayson held him fast. “And are you so certain I need… toughening up?”
Staring in amazement, Tom mutely shook his head, and Grayson quickly took advantage of his silence.
“Now, let us get something straight, Tom,” he said in a cool tone.
“You will adopt an attitude of respect toward me, not because you like me, but because it is my due. I have no desire to disrupt your unusual household or to cause Kate any grief, but if you do not treat me in an appropriate manner, I will be forced to knock you senseless.”
Grayson paused to make sure that the man understood. “What shall it be?”
Tom’s dark eyes flickered with something akin to awe, and he licked his lips. “Well, there’s no need for any of that, now that we know where we stand and all, my lord.”
“Do we?” Grayson asked, his brow lifting.
Tom nodded, then shot him a shrewd glance. “Of course, my lord—as long as you don’t hurt my girls.”
“I assure you that I have no intention of distressing the young women,” Grayson said. H released his grip, and Tom’s feet slid back to the floor.
The old man managed to look pensive for a moment as he studied Grayson, then eased himself away. “I’ll just leave you to your bath and wash the dishes in the morning, then.”
“You do that,” Grayson said, as he watched the fellow back out of the room.
He waited until Tom had disappeared into the gallery, then leaned against the wall himself and released a harsh breath.
He had pushed his weak body too far, but it had been worth it to establish his authority.
He was no bully, but neither would he allow some lackwit to run roughshod over him. No one ran roughshod over him.
Gradually his breathing slowed to normal, and Grayson turned his attention to his long-delayed toilette.
Stepping forward, he halted abruptly as he realized no servant would be in to clear the room.
With a low oath, he retrieved his wineglass and blew out most of the candles.
Taking up a candelabra, he walked through the darkened rooms and down to the kitchen.
Eyeing the facilities bleakly, Grayson nonetheless stoked the dying fire, found the buckets, filled them and hung them on hooks over the growing blaze. Dragging a brass tub from its place in the buttery, he positioned it near the hearth, but when he reached for the hot water, he burned his fingers.
Swearing vehemently, Grayson felt like abandoning the whole business and waiting until tomorrow, when, by God, he would get some staff here.
But having gone this far, he refused to forgo the pleasure of a good soak—and a scrub.
His hair needed washing, and he did not intend to let himself go to seed, like some of his peers.
This time he managed to fill the tub without further injury, and he was soon stripped and ensconced in the hot water, a sliver of soap in hand.
Grayson fingered it idly. From its texture, it appeared to be homemade, and he pictured Kate forced to toil over a steaming vat of lye.
Cursing again, Grayson lifted the sliver to his nose and breathed in the faint scent of mint. Kate’s.
It smelled positively delicious. Grayson wondered if he could find some fine French soap with just the same fragrance.
Although he was not accustomed to buying such personal items for any woman, even a mistress, he did not pause to contemplate this sudden change in his habits.
He decided to have his secretary check into the matter.
After cleansing his hair, Grayson leaned back and let out a low, ragged breath.
He had pushed himself too hard today. Too much standing and walking had made his weak muscles ache and his shoulder hurt.
Sinking deeper, he let the heat soothe his smaller pains, but when he closed his eyes, he had another cause for discomfort.
Erotic memories of his last bath, at Kate’s hands, assailed him, making his breath catch and his body tighten.
As he had been half out of his mind at the time, he could not be sure what had been real and what he had conjured from his fevered imaginings.
But he was certain she had washed him, and the thought banished the simple pleasure of the tub.
Seized with the urge to repeat the exotic ritual when he was in possession of his wits and a fully functioning body, Grayson could only grind his teeth in frustration.
He had never been one to keep his desires leashed, but until he discovered his temptress’s identity, circumstances forced him to do so.
Although Grayson tried to recapture his initial enjoyment of the relaxing water, it was useless, for he would never again think of bathing in quite the same way. He groaned as he realized that more than one of his personal habits had undergone a change since his first meeting with Kate.
Even more disturbing was his growing certainty that nothing in his life would ever be the same again.