Authors: Julia Latham
He knew he should speak, should alert her, but words were stuck in his parched throat. Instead, he watched her lift her arm, slide the wet cloth down it, then across her shoulder and neck, and to the other side. Water glistened on her skin, ran in tiny rivulets to be captured in the cloth covering her.
Arching her head back, she washed her neck and face, then braced one leg on a chair and began to torture him with smooth strokes along the length of her calf and thigh. Adam’s breath was tight in his lungs, his body reacting powerfully to the eroticism of watching her bathe. When she switched legs, the cloth gaped at her hips, and he saw the shadowed recesses of the depths of her body. His eyes could see little, but his mind could imagine.
He should say something, he knew, but then she turned away from him, dropped the facecloth into the basin—and lowered the concealing cloth and fastened it at her hips. The long, slender lines
of her back enticed him with a show of feminine strength. As she lifted her arm to wash along her ribs, the round swell of her breast seemed to peek at him, still mostly hidden by the turn of her body, and the shadows in the chamber.
Now he was truly wishing he’d spoken sooner, for this was torture more severe than he’d imagined being able to tolerate. Though he couldn’t see the front of her body, he knew she was washing her breasts, her hands sliding along what he ached to touch.
Would she soon stand totally nude before him? he wondered desperately.
Instead, when she finished with her upper body, she maneuvered the cloth back to its original position, then reached beneath to finish the more private recesses. He gave a choked sound, and she froze, dropping her facecloth to the floor.
“Adam?”
Her voice cracked on the word, as if fear had haunted her through the night. Guilt slithered through him like a serpent.
“I am well, thanks to you,” he murmured hoarsely.
Her smile was tremulous, and she turned her head away for a moment. Composing herself? Had she feared so much for him? Had anyone, but his brothers, ever cared like this?
“How long have I been asleep?” he asked.
She came to him, removing the poultice to look at his wound. It did not appear nearly as inflamed as it had yesterday, and he knew that she was relieved. Her ministrations had helped him. She put another cushion behind him, so that at least he was not lying as prone as an invalid. She understood him too well already.
But during all her concerned care, she wore only the cloth, fastened roughly at her breasts. He could not take his gaze away from the smooth line of her cleavage. She most certainly noticed his pointed stare, because she gave a beguiling blush and didn’t meet his gaze.
“I brought you here yesterday afternoon,” she said, then glanced at the shutters. “It looks to be morn.”
“I remember arriving, but little else. All is well?”
She nodded. “My sister helped me with your care. I am sure she will return soon with a meal to break your fast.”
“Good. I am hungry.”
With a grin, she said, “That is a sign of returning health. But although you may feel much improved, you need rest to fully recover. As I told your men, we will contact them tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” he repeated, frowning. “In several hours, I will be able to—”
“Nay, do not argue,” she said firmly. “You are returning to health, but you are not there yet. Eat
and sleep more. Let the medicine heal you. London—and my father—will still be there.”
He said nothing as their gazes held.
At last he sighed. “I need a moment’s privacy.” And then he thought of the night, and imagined her caring for him in such a way.
She smiled. “You actually demanded your privacy last night. You managed well enough alone.”
He exhaled in relief.
“Close your eyes so that I can don my gown.”
He heaved a loud sigh, causing her to giggle, but he did as she requested. His breathing was far too rapid as he listened to the rustling of her garments.
“I will be outside in the corridor if you need me. The chamber pot is beneath the bed.”
He did not have to call for her, but he was surprised at how weak and light-headed he felt just standing up. She was right; he needed rest. He just hated to admit it.
When she returned, she was not alone. The other woman with her was dressed in silks, obviously the countess of the household. She carried a tray covered with a piece of cloth.
Though he was sitting propped in bed, Adam inclined his head toward her. “Lady Christina, thank you for your generosity.”
She looked a bit like Florrie, especially through the green eyes, but with none of Florrie’s open joy at life. Lady Christina watched him with
wariness, her hands clasped together after she set down the tray. He kept his movements gentle for fear of startling her.
“Sir Edmund
, you look well this morn,” she said, glancing at her sister almost nervously.
Then Florrie looked guilty. Why the emphasis on his false name? Unless her ladyship
knew
it was false.
“I feel much better, although my nurse insists I’m not,” he said dryly.
“You had quite the fever,” Lady Christina said. “’Tis well that you rest.”
“Yet we do not wish to cause you problems.”
She shook her head. “My husband is not in residence, sir. I can easily offer you our hospitality. And you have been taking care of my sister on her journey to London, which I appreciate.”
She seemed to be accepting the story for what it was, making Adam relax.
Florrie took the tray from her sister. “I do not wish to keep you, Christina. If you could bring me some sewing to pass the time, I would appreciate it.”
“And how will I pass the time?” Adam asked.
Florrie raised an eyebrow. “Sleeping.”
After Christina had left, Florrie brought the tray over and sat on a chair at his side. With the tray resting on her knees, she slid away the cloth to reveal a large bowl of pottage, two spoons and knives, a tankard of something, a loaf of bread, and a crock of butter.
She nodded. “You will not be able to eat much, so we can share this.”
“I beg to differ, Florrie, but—”
She lifted a spoon to his mouth, and with his outrage, she was able to put it between his lips. When she pulled the spoon away, he took it from her hand.
After swallowing, he said, “I can feed myself.”
She put the tray in his lap, smiling enigmatically. A short while later, he had to admit she was right. Though the food filled the hollow in his belly, he wasn’t able to eat much of it.
At last she stood above him, hands on her hips. “’Tis time for you to wash, but I fear you are still too weak. I will have to do it.”
He was about to protest his fitness, then realized his foolishness. Meekly, he said, “Whatever you think best.”
She rolled her eyes and gave a little snort that made him smile. After leaving the chamber briefly, she came back with a clean basin of water and fresh linen. All brisk competence, she folded his blanket down to his waist, laid a drying cloth to protect the bed, and began to work, beginning with his face. He must be feeling better, for all he could think about was her fingers touching him and her concerned face so close to his. She kept glancing up at him from beneath her lashes, and he didn’t look away, which seemed to fluster her.
As she moved on to his neck and shoulders, he realized that she was trembling.
“We should talk about something,” she finally said, then bit her lip.
“We should?” he answered softly. As she wiped farther down his chest, brushing a nipple, he gave a jerk. “I think if I open my mouth too much, I’ll moan.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, holding the dripping cloth just above his stomach. “Should I stop?”
“And allow me to repulse you with my uncleanness?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You
want
me to continue.”
“I am a man, Florrie. How could I not? But I will try not to respond in any way.”
He closed his eyes and steeled himself against responding, knowing he’d frighten her away. It took every bit of his control not to shudder when her cloth moved along his side. When she had him roll to his side so that she could reach his back, he felt a little more distant and calm. But then she folded the blanket back from his legs and began to work on his lower body, starting at his feet and moving up. Try as he might, all he could imagine was doing the same to her. If she removed the blanket completely, she’d see how the ministrations were affecting him.
At last, when there was nothing left to do that was not far too intimate for a virgin to contemplate, Florrie hesitated. He waited, wondering how bold she would be.
When she touched the blanket at his waist, he
caught her arm and pulled her down so that she pressed against his damp chest.
“I will finish,” he said huskily. And then he kissed her, a hot, passionate kiss meant to show her how she affected him, how much he wished they could continue. Every moment they were alone together made it harder and harder for him to resist her.
At last she lifted her head, her mouth wet, her breath coming in shallow pants. “I should…apply a fresh bandage.”
He grinned and closed his eyes, surprised by how tired he suddenly felt. “You do that.”
Yet he barely remembered her ministrations. He slept on and off through the morning, reluctantly admitting to himself that he still needed time to recover. Later, he saw her sewing by the window, and he didn’t even remember hearing someone arrive to bring her the cloth and supplies.
By the midday meal, he decided it was time to test himself, so he ate with her at the table after donning a clean shirt and breeches that had been left for him. Standing up was easier than he’d thought it would be, and she smiled her encouragement.
Florrie studied him as they sat facing each other, and she looked thoughtful.
“Ask your questions,” he said at last. “But I cannot promise long answers. I feel ravenous—another good sign?”
She grinned and nodded. “Tell me, after London, what do you do next? Do you continue your work with the League?”
“If they will have me.” He ate a bite of roast lamb. “But the League does not demand year-round service. They only ask for a man’s service once a year, for perhaps a few weeks at most. They want us to have a normal life. And other people are less likely to be suspicious.”
“And you will live at this home you have not seen in almost twenty years.”
He nodded as he buttered a piece of bread.
“Will you miss the place you grew up in?” she asked hesitantly.
He shrugged, chewing his bread before speaking. “Of course I will miss the friendships formed there, but there were not many of us there all the time. After several months of initial training, most Bladesmen never came there again.”
“So it will be as if you start a new life,” she said softly.
He sat back, his belly full at last, regarding her. “Many people are forced to do so. I’ve seen this in my work for the League. The few assignments I’ve been on have shown me that the world can be a cruel place, and people are often dealt tragic blows. But they survive them, just as I did. Just as you’ll survive whatever happens to your father.”
It was a cruel thing to remind her, and he saw the stunned look she couldn’t hide. But she had
not yet told him all of her secrets, and he could not let her forget them—or what they meant to him.
He stood up and began to move about the chamber, pacing from the window to the hearth, from the door to the bed. Although he was not at peak strength, he felt well enough that they would certainly be leaving by dawn on the morrow. His wound occasionally gave him a twinge of pain, but it wasn’t bleeding.
By late afternoon, he was restless and bored. He kept looking at Florrie, who seemed to be plucking out more stitches than she sewed. More and more he was thinking about the bed, and Florrie, and the privacy they’d have for one more night. He really must be feeling better, because she was dominating his thoughts.
He stopped above her to examine her work, and she didn’t lift her head. He looked at the fine hairs curling beneath her ear, and the way her fingers delicately touched the cloth. He’d spent a night with her hands on him, and he couldn’t remember any of it, which was frustrating.
“Do you want something, Adam?” she said, at last looking up at him.
He put his hand on her shoulder, and the silence stretched out between them. Her eyes widened and grew softer, and she glanced at his hand, so close to her face.
Then there was a soft knock on the door, and he stepped away.
Christina entered. As she closed the door behind her, she looked between the two of them curiously, then focused on a blushing Florrie. Adam wondered if perhaps Christina understood her sister more than Florrie ever thought she did.
Christina leaned back against the door. “I wanted to let you know that we have a guest who knows you, Florrie.”
Florrie rose to her feet. “Who is it?”
“Our brother by marriage, Claudius Drake.”
“I thought he was in London,” Florrie said with a growing frown.
“He was, and he returns again on the morrow. He was been visiting people in the countryside, or so he says.”
“So he says?” Adam echoed.
Christina glanced at him, as if surprised he had spoken. Of course, she thought of him as nothing but Florrie’s guard.
Florrie said, “Christina and I never quite trust what Claudius says.”
“He has been caught too often in convenient…mistruths,” Christina agreed.
The sisters exchanged smiles.
“Do not let him stop you from disguising yourselves and sharing the evening meal with us,” Christina said. “There will be dancing afterward. Surely you are tired of being confined here after your exciting journey.”
“Nay, we cannot,” Florrie said before Adam
could even open his mouth. “I thank you for thinking of us, Christina, but ’tis imperative that we quietly leave on the morrow.”
“Imperative, why?” Christina asked.
Adam said, “The missive I carry needs to be delivered, Lady Christina.”
“But do you not work for my sister, who needs to recover from the strain of caring for you?” Christina’s voice was a little sharper now.