Chapter 8 #2
“An extra linen will hardly help. It will only cling to my cock and rub it to utter distraction.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not. If you won’t heed my warning, then I must ask you to forgive my baser response to your touch. It has been a long time since I…”
When he paused trying to think of a polite way to make her understand, she answered for him. “Since you slaked your lust.”
He winced. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“Then how would you put it?”
“Since I lay with a woman that I desired and admired.”
She giggled as if she didn’t believe him. “Are you telling me that you admired every woman that you’ve taken to your bed?”
“No, I have not. But many of the women I have shared my bed with have fallen into those categories and I find I no longer want anything else.”
“France changed your view of who should share your bed?”
“No. My mind changed long before I went to France.” He changed the subject before she delved into territory too dangerous to enter. “You started to say something about Sir Williamson when you came in.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” She cleared her throat and handed him a hand towel which he obediently used to cover his cock.
Once covered, he gazed down to see the cloth molded to his staff, clinging to him from the tip nestled against his stomach, to the backside of his bullocks.
If she chose to look, he’d be damned if he’d stop her.
He dropped his hands to his sides and closed his eyes, enjoying the way her delicate hands faltered in their task of massaging his scalp.
“I received word from Sir Williamson that he would come by this evening.”
“Finally.”
“May I ask why he is coming?”
“No. Are you trying to torture me?”
“Am I hurting your head?”
“You have no idea how badly.”
Her hands pulled away.
“I’m teasing.” Except he wasn’t.
“Does he want to talk about my father’s death?”
He kept his mouth closed, refusing to let her waylay the pleasant fantasy he was living at the present.
“My sisters and I have long questioned the manner in which he died.”
He sighed with the pleasure of her fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp so thoroughly. “Why is that?”
“Our father was distraught over our mother’s death, that is true. He could barely manage his own grief, let alone the grief of five girls.”
“There are six of you.”
“Yes, but mother died a few days after giving birth to Robbi. She didn’t know her to mourn her.”
He frowned. “She could still mourn her loss. A mother’s touch, her voice, the sound of her heartbeat so close to a baby’s soul for her entire existence and then suddenly, the sound is gone. I can’t imagine anyone feeling the loss of one’s mother more dramatically than a babe.”
She paused for a moment, then said, “I suppose you have a point. I never really thought of it that way. We were all too busy mourning our loss at the time to recognize Robbi may be experiencing it, too.”
“Her sense of loss could explain her rebellious ways.”
“Mmm, you may be right, but what about your siblings? A few of your brothers are the wild sort, yet they came from a two-parent home. There are countless children who rebel against their parents without any cause at all.” She began rinsing his hair, the warm water dripping down the sides of his face and the back of his neck while she shielded his face from water going into his eyes.
“True,” he admitted. “However, my brothers’ behavior is a direct result of my father’s indiscretions.”
“Don’t think I don’t recognize how you’ve steered this conversation away from my father’s death and the reason you traveled to America to investigate it.”
“Very well, you caught me. I can’t help but be drawn into everything about you.”
“Sink down in the tub so I can finish rinsing your hair.”
He did as she asked, dropping down into the water.
Her fingers disappeared from his scalp, and her eyes turned away as she patted him on the shoulder as if he were a child she was telling to get out of the water.
He slowly rose to a seated position and scrubbed a hand down his face.
“Lean forward,” she said from directly behind him.
“I thought you were done.”
“Not even close, my lord.”
He leaned forward and suffered through her ministrations as she glided the cloth across his shoulders, down his sides, and then down the length of his spine.
“These scars across your back, are they still painful?”
“No. You did a wonderful job treating even the worst of my injuries. I’m sorry you were subjected to that.”
“It is no less than what you did for me when you rescued me from those highway men.” He froze and closed his eyes. He would take a lifetime of torture in a French prison if he could erase that one day in time for her. And him.
“I’m sorry,” she said as her hand rubbed down the back of his head to soothe him. She started to rise, and he reached back for her hand, holding it against the side of his face as he cradled it between his neck and shoulder.
“It’s not my time in prison that haunts me, Caillen. It’s the time I spent with you in that inn wondering if you would live or die and knowing that you did not want to live. But what hurts more is the lie that I told to protect you from public scorn, becoming the truth in your mind.”
She tried to pull away at that moment, but he wouldn’t let her. The two of them had to face the truth of their past and the only way they could do that, was together.
“Astley, let me go.”
“Not until you accept the truth of that day.”
“My husband died, I was…was…attacked by bandits. What else is there to say?” Her voice was curt.
“That’s not what happened, Caillen.” He kept his voice just above a whisper as if it would soften the blow. “There were no bandits, no highwayman, no thieves. Just Bredlebane and his driver and my double shot pistol.”
She tried to pull away, but he forced her to look him in the eye as he slowly pulled her over his shoulder and laid her in his arms as he held her gaze.
Their positioning should have been awkward with her legs hanging over the edge of the tub and her body cradled in his arms, half in and half out of the tub, with her gown floating like a delicate lily on top of the water. It wasn’t.
“Bredlebane was furious. He had beaten you worse than I have ever seen a woman beaten in my life. I’m assuming his beating didn’t occur on the way to Gretna Green, because when you were delirious with pain, trauma and laudanum, you began rambling that you were sorry you didn’t tell him about Ross withdrawing your dowry if you eloped. ”
She was shaking her head, refusing to hear his words. “That’s not true. You shot the highwayman.” Her eyes pleaded with him to deny the truth, as tears welled and spilled down her cheeks. She had lived the lie for too long, protecting a dead man, who deserved to rot in hell for eternity.
“I shot Bredlebane while he was on top of you,” he confessed. His heart skipped several beats as she continued to shake her head in denial. Knowing that no matter what she accepted, she could end up hating him for murdering her husband.
“Then I killed his driver who had been holding your wrists down. He’d pulled out a pistol and I had no problem killing him on the spot. I’m just sorry I didn’t arrive sooner.”
“He was my husband…” she whispered
“He was a scoundrel who did not deserve you.”
“He thought I’d lied to him.”
“That’s not an excuse for him to beat you. It’s no excuse for what he did to you.”
Silently, she cried the tears she hadn’t shed when she’d been recovering from the heinous attack. “I never thanked you,” she said through a hiccup.
“Thank me for what? Failing you when I knew him to be a scoundrel?” He wiped her tears with his wet hand.