Chapter 12
Hunter held her ground. Her heart was beating like the hooves of a wild destrier, but she would not let him see her panic.
“’Tis kind of you to offer,” she said, making certain her tone was disdainful. “But I changed me mind. I need no help bathing.”
He watched her. His eyes were dark and somber, his tremendous body still. “’Tis no trouble. I have little else to do,” he said and in one fell motion, yanked his tunic from beneath his belt and over his head.
Muscles bulged into view, capping his shoulders, rising from his chest, stretching from his throat to his waist in tight hard rows. She stumbled back a pace. “What the devil are you about?”
He shrugged. Muscles shifted like magic beneath his skin. Indeed, every inch of him bulged and danced as if set to music. His arms were broad and corded, his chest was hard and honed, and beneath the pronounced rows of his ribs, muscles rippled across his abdomen like marching soldiers.
Damn! she thought, and was completely uncertain whether she’d said the word aloud.
“You needn’t be afraid.”
His words spurred her gaze back to his. She was already shaking her head, though she couldn’t remember why exactly. “I am not—”
“I’ll not harm you.”
She lifted her chin. “I believe we’ve proven that already.”
“So we have, laddie. Remove your loincloth.”
He said it not as an order exactly, but more as an offhand statement. As if he didn’t particularly care if she obeyed, or rebelled, or ran screaming from the room like a deranged banshee.
“I’ll not—” she began.
“You can hardly take a proper bath until you do.”
“I’ve been bathing long afore—”
“Then you should know how it’s done,” he suggested, his tone mediational. “Remove your clothes.”
She couldn’t move.
“Tell me, lass, is it yourself or me that you fear the most?”
“I fear no one.”
He stared at her for a moment longer, and in the depths of his eyes it seemed she could see her own emotions reflected as clear as sunrise. She shifted her gaze away and for an instant, from the corner of her eye, it almost seemed that she saw him smile.
“Disrobe now,” he said, “unless you need me own help again.”
She knew she should refuse, but his logic, her desire, and her own foolish words had conspired against her. She put her hand to the lace that held her undergarment in place, but her lungs felt compressed, her fingers unsteady. “Why do you just stand there, MacGowan? Have you nothing to do?”
“Ahh, but I am doing something,” he countered. “I am watching you disrobe.” He paused. His nostrils flared. “In order to be of more assistance to you in the future.”
Future! In the future! As though she could bear to do this again without admitting her own shameful weaknesses.
As though . . . She gritted her teeth and forced her mind onto safer ground.
Her hands shook. She tightened them to fists and tried to ascertain how to keep them out of trouble.
“Fetch me soap and towels,” she ordered.
“Presently,” he said. “As soon as you are safely in the tub.”
“Now!” Her tone was brash and harsh, the command of a warrior.
He smiled. Her knees weakened.
“Nay,” he said, and took a step forward. “Mayhap you are in need of assistance.”
“Don’t—” The harsh tone had weakened considerably, but she sharpened it quickly. “Don’t come nearer.”
“Tell me, me laird. Are you so aloof with all your servants?”
“I do not have servants, as you very well know.”
He scowled as if puzzled. “And why is that? Surely you are not afeared they will mistake you for a maid.”
“Nay. ’Tis because I oft find them troublesome.”
He laughed and lifted a hand to indicate her loincloth. Muscles jumped like leaping steeds in his chest and arms. “Remove that ungodly thing. The water cools.”
She swallowed hard. A million possibilities stormed through her head. Should she refuse, order him to turn around, challenge him to a duel? The options seemed limitless. Even swooning was a distinct possibility, though she’d rather die.
“Come now, laddie, surely you have naught I haven’t seen a hundred times since. After all, we are both warriors, you and I. Unless . . .” He paused. “Unless you admit you are something more.”
She lifted her chin and straightened her back. “Damn you, MacGowan,” she said and, tossing her dirk onto the bed, set her fingers to the string that held the last vestige of her modesty. It came away easily in her hand, then slid down her legs to the floor.
They stared at each other from a few mere feet apart as Hunter chanted a soothing mantra.
All was well. All was well. They were two warriors, just as he said.
And even if he were not a womanish man, she was surely not the type to attract him.
Men were wont to idolize another kind of maid.
Not a scarred, steely warrior like herself, but the small and the dainty.
Therefore, there was no reason for her to worry.
She was not attracted to him. He was not attracted to her.
She could step into the tub without fear of molestation.
In fact, she ordered herself to do just that, but her legs refused to move.
She was frozen in place, her gaze locked on his.
But finally his attention shifted. It traveled downward as slow as pain, touching her breasts first. She held her breath and refused to wince, for she did not care if he found her unbecoming.
But if he were repulsed, his emotions failed to show in his face.
Indeed, his eyes seemed to be lit by a fire from within as he skimmed his gaze lower, over her waist and beyond to the tingling cap of hair trapped between her shivering thighs.
She drew in her breath as if struck and he caught her gaze again.
His nostrils flared momentarily. “Get into the tub,” he said.
She planned to refuse. Indeed, she opened her mouth to do just that, for no man gave her orders, but there was something in his eyes.
Something dark and deep and just barely controlled.
She hesitated just an instant, and then, like one in a trance, she stepped over the metal rim and into the water.
It rose up her legs like a balm, and she sunk eagerly into its concealing warmth.
Their gazes never broke, but when she was beneath the surface, he exhaled softly and she wondered suddenly if he too had been holding his breath.
Might he be telling the truth? Might his desires be normal?
But nay. He had turned aside the maid at the inn and concentrated on her.
She shifted her eyes fretfully away and stared into the water.
It was a smallish tub, just large enough for a good sized man to fit inside with his knees bent up.
Still, the heat was soothing. She cleared her throat and tried to concentrate on that sensation, but she could feel his gaze like a brand on her face.
“What are you staring at?”
“Anything that is visible.”
She spurred her gaze to his. His eyes were ablaze, his body taut, but finally he drew a deep breath and unclenched his fists. “Where do I find the soap?”
She found her equilibrium with some difficulty and finally managed to give him directions. Disappointment and relief swelled in her when he finally left. She closed her eyes and breathed heavily, then sank lower into the tub and let the wilding panic take her.
Hell’s saints, what had she gotten herself into? What was she thinking? What—
But before she’d finished the garbled thoughts, he had already returned.
She hunched her shoulders, but refused to cover herself. After all, she was a warrior, and wholly without shame. Still, she had to force herself to meet his gaze as she cleared her throat.
“You found it then?” she asked, though she knew he had for he held the soap, along with an earthenware jar, in his hand . . . just below the dark nub of his right nipple.
She swallowed hard and raised her gaze to his face with a snap.
Not a word was spoken. Not a molecule of air seemed left in the room. “Good,” she said, and nodded. “’Tis good. ’Tis . . . well . . .” She nodded. The movement felt strangely disjointed. “I’ve no further need of your services, MacGowan.”
“Your uncle said to see to your needs.”
“Aye, well . . .” She licked her lips, and he seemed to follow the motion with his eyes. “Me uncle is clearly not in his right mind, for ’tis certain I do not need you.”
The silence lay as heavy as sin around them.
“Mayhap,” he said finally, and took a step toward her, his hard gaze raking her. “But I am here nevertheless.”
Her ribs were constricting her lungs. She struggled to breathe, to draw in air, to refrain from any kind of foolish weakness. Instead, she gripped the smooth metal rim and raised her chin.
“Find your bed, MacGowan.”
“Bed.” His voice rumbled deep and quiet in the firelit room. “Nay. Not just yet. You are not ready.”
“What?”
He raised his gaze slowly to hers. His eyes burned like living amber. “I will see you bathed first,” he said.
Her fingers hurt from her grip against the tub’s rim. “In truth, MacGowan . . .” she began, but the truth was not her ally. Nay, though she loved honesty, ’twas lies that had kept her alive these many years. “I prefer my privacy.”
Nevertheless, he came nearer. Beneath the water, her body coiled in on itself, feeling tight as a drum beneath the gentle waves.
“How long has it been?” he asked.
She steadied her breathing and hardened her glare. “What’s that?”
“How long has it been since someone saw you thus?”
“Why do you wish to know?”
He was near the tub now and in an instant he was seated on the rim, just beside her whitened knuckles.
Her throat closed up.
“How long has it been?” he asked and, dipping into the jar, scattered a handful of herbs over the water.