She rolled back her sleeves one by one, knowing the water would eventually grow cold, and she could only delay the inevitable for so long. The soap and cloth sat in her lap, mocking her. “I was answering your questions, as I recall.”
“Ah, banshee. I am too tired to argue with you. Tomorrow, we shall return to daggers drawn, but for today do you think we might call a temporary truce?”
Something inside her had become hopelessly addled, for she liked that sobriquet on his tongue, referring to her. Banshee. She admired the strong column of his throat, the delineation of his Adam’s apple, the sulky pout of his mouth.
How could she ever call a truce with this man?
How could she not?
Just one day, whispered her heart. What could be the harm?
Tomorrow, she could worry about vengeance and Cullen and the unseen war being waged all around them. Tomorrow, she could recall an illegitimate Irish shop girl, with a brother in gaol and more ties to the most dangerous ring of Fenian plotters than she cared to count, must never, ever allow herself to soften for the enemy.
“For today,” she agreed softly, dipping the cloth in the water before trailing it over the arm nearest her.
A companionable silence fell, interrupted only by the gentle slosh of the water. She took to her task with more pleasure than she would have admitted. Over his skin she traveled, in motions meant to soothe as much as cleanse. She lathered his arms and chest in soap. His neck, his shoulders. With each pass of the cloth over him, an answering lick of fire burned in her belly. He was so beautiful. So vulnerable to her. The combination was heady. The ridiculous urge to press her lips to his throat would not leave her.
“You sang to me.” The sudden timbre of his voice gave her a start. “When I was with fever.”
She glanced up to find him watching her with a heavy-lidded stare. Her cheeks went hot with the combined shame of being caught ogling him and being caught warbling when she had supposed he could not hear.
She cleared her throat, turning her attention back to soaping his shoulder. “Forgive me for subjecting you to the torture of my lamentable singing.”
“Your voice…it’s beautiful.”
Bridget met his gaze once more. It was certainly not what she had expected him to say. She enjoyed singing to herself, but she had never sung for anyone else. Not even Cullen. Not her mother. No one.
Except for the Duke of Carlisle.
But her voice was not beautiful, and she knew it. “You need not say so out of a sense of obligation.” She returned her attention to his chest, wishing it were not quite so magnificent.
“Nonsense,” his voice was gruff velvet to her senses. “I would not say so unless it were true. Your singing is lovely. I was hoping, in the interest of our truce, I could convince you to sing for me again now.”
Her stomach clenched at the notion. “I am afraid I cannot, Duke.”
“Leo,” he corrected, his tone warm. Almost flirtatious. It reminded her of the first night they had met, before he had realized they were bitter enemies. “Also on account of the truce.”
She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. She was thawing toward him. Softening and weakening. Feeling emotions she had no right to feel. And yet, she was helpless to stop it.
“Very well,” she allowed, in spite of herself. “Tonight, you shall be Leo, and I shall be Bridget. Tomorrow, we can return to the opposite sides of the battlefield.”
“Bridget.”
She liked the way his lips moved when he said her name. Liked the sound of it in his crisp accent and deep baritone. Liked it far, far too much. She bit her lip to keep from smiling and turned her attention back to her task. “Leo.”
“Yes.” His eyes had closed once more. “I like the sound of that. Sing for me now, Bridget. Please.”
Somehow, singing for him whilst his lids were lowered and he was not pinning her to her chair with that dark, consuming gaze of his, seemed easier. Possible. She soaped his right shoulder and biceps, and then the lyrics were flowing, the melody humming around them. The song she sang was one of her favorites, a haunting tune from the days of Napoleon, The Bonny Light Horseman.
She washed him as the ballad filled the air around them, soaping and rinsing, rinsing and soaping, admiring his firm flesh, all the ways his body was so different from hers, singing as she went. “ ‘And the dove she laments for her mate as she flies. ‘Oh, where, tell me where is my true love?’ she sighs. ‘And where in this wide world is there one to compare with my bonny light horseman who was killed in the war?’ ”
When she reached the haunting final verse, the chamber was filled with such stillness, she flushed all over again. She rinsed the last of the suds from his chest and arms. “There you are. All clean.”
His eyes opened, burning with warmth. “That was stunning, Bridget.”
Bridget, he had said. Not banshee. Not madam. Not Miss O’Malley.
But Bridget.
Before she could say anything, his hand caught hers, the grip firm and strong. “You’re stunning.”
An indescribable sensation rocketed through her, exploding like a blossom of fireworks against the ink of an evening sky. For a beat, she could not move. Could not look away from him. Her heart thudded with such tenacity she swore she could hear it. Perhaps he could as well. Their wet fingers tangled, a simple connection, and yet, the lone gesture signified so much.
She had never felt the need to hold on to another person’s hand more.
She didn’t want to let go.
Ever.
As soon as the thought entered her mind, she chased it away, reminding herself she would let go. She had to. She hadn’t a choice. Cullen could only be extricated from prison by foul means, and even if she trusted the duke enough to unburden herself to him, the only means he would offer by way of assistance—indeed, if he could offer any at all—would be fair. Fair would not work for an Irish lad with a mountain of false evidence against him. Only foul would, and for foul, she required John.
A tremor passed over her. She withdrew her hand, then fussed with the pitcher she would use to pour over his hair to wet it so she could work the shampoo through the thick, dark strands.
“Something is troubling you,” he observed.
“Nothing is troubling me. Your water shall cool if we tarry any longer.” She dunked the pitcher into the tub, allowing it to fill. “I’ll need to wet your hair so I can wash it.”
He allowed her to move him, positioning his body more toward the middle of the tub, then guiding his head back so his handsome face was upside down before her. Even from such a silly angle, he was broodingly beautiful. Those knowing eyes of his sought hers.
“What is everything you hold dear?” he asked suddenly.
Their positions meant she could not help but stare at the fullness of his lower lip, the lip she had once bitten hard enough to draw blood. But his question took her aback despite her preoccupation. Or perhaps because of it.
“My family,” she answered truthfully. “Why do you ask?”
“You once told me the world has taken everything you hold dear from you.” He paused to sigh in delight when she began working the shampoo into his hair, massaging his scalp as she did so. “I have not forgotten.”
And so she had, a lifetime ago, it seemed, when she had been Jane Palliser, and she had kissed him with wild abandon. How strange to think she was now his wife. Washing his hair as if it were a commonplace occurrence, tending to him on his sickbed as if he were a loved one in truth rather than the man she’d been forced to marry to save herself.
She said nothing, focusing all her attention on washing his hair. Bridget was starting to discover she liked taking care of him in this fashion. She enjoyed having the big, strapping Duke of Carlisle, so powerful and dangerous, at her mercy. She liked touching him. Washing him. Looking after him. It struck her then that he was a man who had no one. He spent his days and his nights so engrossed in his work he did not sleep. He had an army of servants, but
no one else here in London with the rest of his family in the country.
“Have you no family left other than the Duchess of Trent and O’Malley?” he asked as she began rinsing his hair.
Suspicion pricked her. Was he using this truce and their temporary détente as a means of extracting more information from her?
It was entirely possible. He was quite cunning.
“None. What of you? Is your only family Mr. Ludlow, his wife and the young duke, and Mrs. Ludlow?”
His full lips compressed into a grim line. “The only family I care for, yes. The woman who birthed me is on the Continent, and she can bloody well remain there.”
There was bitterness in his tone and shadows in his eyes, and both pricked at her heart, though she knew they should not. “You do not love your mother?”
Although hers had not been perfect, she had tried her best for Bridget and Cullen, and Bridget had mourned her when she had died far too young. Years had passed, and she missed her still. The absence of a life did not lessen one’s longing for it, but time served to dull the anguish it caused.
“The dowager Duchess of Carlisle? No.” He said it with finality.
She filled the pitcher once more to give his hair a second rinsing, and the wide chocolate-brown eyes of the golden duchess returned to her, along with a jab of something unpleasant. “Do you have someone else in London? A lady you love, perhaps?”
“I have a wife I cannot trust.” His tone was wry.
“You are trusting me now,” she reminded him as she gently worked her fingers through his hair with one hand while pouring water from the pitcher with the other.
“On account of our truce and my gratitude to you for nursing me back to health.”
She was not sure she liked his answer. “There was a very concerned duchess here on the day you took ill. A beautiful woman. The Duchess of Ashelford, I believe it was.”
He stiffened, the tenseness returning to his jaw. “I have no inkling why she would come here.”
“Haven’t you?” Bridget was not convinced.
“No.” Again, he was cool. Concise.
“She wanted me to convey her sincere apologies to you,” she pressed, though she knew it was wrong. Carlisle’s past was none of her concern. Nor, truly, was his present or future. He had just reminded her of the fragility of their union. Of how it would necessarily end. And did she not remind herself of the selfsame truth often?
His lips curved, but since he remained upside down, she could not discern the sort of smile it was. “What else did she say?”
Intriguing response. She was not certain she liked it. In fact, she was more certain she did not. Was he interested in the Duchess of Ashelford?
Of course he would be.
The woman was a veritable goddess.
She gave his hair one final rinse. “There you are. I am afraid I do not recall what else she said, though she was adamant about reaching your bedside.”
He said nothing, merely returned to a sitting position in the tub.
Well, then. Bridget had bathed him, agreed to his truce, and her duties were at an end. She alone had nursed him through his illness. Not the golden, sainted, beautiful Duchess of Ashelford. A woman who was a true duchess rather than a pretender. A woman who had spoken of Carlisle as Leo, who had shared a past with him, who had meant enough to him that his jaw had hardened at the mentioning of her.
She stood, drying her hands on the silk of her skirts without a care for if it stained them. “I do realize ours is a marriage in name only, and you were forced to wed me. But would it be too much to ask your lovers to refrain from visiting your home while I am in residence?”
“Bridget.”
She was already halfway to the door when he called her name. She paused, refusing to turn back to him, for he had an uncanny ability to read her thoughts and mood by examining her expression and searching her gaze. “Yes?”
“Face me.” It was not a command, yet neither was it a plea, issued in his deep voice, enough to send a shiver through her.
But that did not mean she would heed him. She was Bridget O’Malley, by God, and she bowed and scraped for no man. “No.”
“Please, Bridget.”
After a slow, deep inhale and exhale to calm her turbulent emotions, she turned back to him. His hair was wet. His chest glistening. His expression concerned. “The duchess is not my lover. She was my betrothed once, but she chose another man over me. I cannot fathom why she was here, nor why she importuned you, and for that I am wholeheartedly sorry.”
Bridget studied him cautiously. He seemed sincere. Contrite. But there was also the matter of the social gathering he had hosted. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain the nature of the soiree I intruded upon after I escaped from my imprisonment.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back. “Ah, Christ. I thought we had established a truce for today.”
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
“It is Leo,” he growled, “and despite your forcing me to consume nothing more than tepid broth for my dinner, I am well enough to stop you should the situation merit it.”
“What shall you do?” she challenged. “Throw me over your shoulder? I think not. If you wish our truce to continue, and if you want me to remain in this chamber, then you owe me an answer, Leo.”
Chapter Thirteen
Throwing her over his shoulder was a tempting invitation.
She was right. He did owe her an explanation. By God, he owed her more than one. And the hell of it was, it would seem he owed her far more than mere explanations. He also owed her his life. He had been seriously ill. He had not realized how ill until consciousness had returned to him in stages. Until he had attempted to stand and walk on his own for the first time.
It had required every bit of strength and determination he had possessed to force himself to the bathing chamber. Now, he was relaxed and warm after her tender ministrations, and damn it to hell if he hadn’t enjoyed her hands upon him far too much. The sensation of her washing his hair had been pure heaven, and though she had studiously avoided soaping him below the water line, he could only imagine how decadent it would feel to have her hand upon the rest of him.
His cock twitched to life at the thought. Good to know that, while being with fever had made him maudlin, it had not affected the most important part of him whatsoever. But the time for dwelling upon his desire for her was not now. Not when she faced him defiantly, eyes blazing.
“I am sorry for hosting the fête. In truth, I had forgotten about it, as the arrangement is rather a longstanding one.” He paused, for disclosure was foreign to him. Leo had spent half his life hiding his work for the League out of necessity. But Bridget already knew who and what he was, and making an admission to her would not signify. “The parties are a part of my efforts to conceal who I truly am. If all London thinks me a wastrel rakehell, they will not be inclined to hold the candle to me and question further.”
Her posture lost some of its starch, her countenance softening. “It is rather an ingenious method of hiding in plain sight.”
He had always described it thus. Despite their obvious differences, he considered her a worthy opponent, and he admired her cunning and intelligence both. Her compliment filled Leo’s chest with a burst of warmth.
“Thank you.” He allowed his gaze to rake her form. “Is our truce still intact?”
Damnation, but the dresses the Duchess of Trent had sent over for her hugged his wife’s figure with a commendable tenacity. Today’s gown was ice blue, nipped at the waist, and she had unbuttoned and rolled back her sleeves to reveal her forearms. He had seen her naked before, and the sliver of ivory flesh on display should not make him feel so voracious, but as he looked at her now, he felt a sudden kinship with the starving man who had been given a feast.
A pink flush tinged her high cheekbones, no doubt the result of his thorough perusal. He liked ruffling this woman’s feathers. Getting beneath her skin. And Christ, but h
e loved knowing he affected her. That try as she might to remain true to her godforsaken cause, in his arms she was as sweet and malleable as summer honey.
“There remains the matter of your imprisonment of me,” she reminded him, the starch that had left her bearing finding its way into her voice instead. “You disappeared for three whole days, keeping me locked in my chamber. It required an act of forgetfulness on the part of Wilton for me to even escape, and just in time too, for you needed me.”
You needed me.
The words wrapped around his heart like a briar, tightening. Painful. He prided himself on never needing anyone. On never being weak or dependent. He was the Duke of Carlisle, the leader of the League, and he was as hard and as cruel as the world had made him.
He was going to tell her as much.
“Yes, I did.”
But his tongue betrayed him.
She appeared as shocked as he felt by the confession. Her dudgeon sagged before him like an ascension balloon on its way back down to earth. “I am amazed you admit it.”
Her opinion of him remained low, it would seem. Perhaps his decision to keep her locked in the duchess’s apartments had not served to enhance it. “Do I seem an unreasonable man to you?”
“You seem a proud man.” She tilted her head, considering him with that bright gaze. “A stubborn man. A man who still has not offered an explanation for locking me in my chamber, as it happens.”
“Because I did not dare trust you,” he bit out, brutal in his honesty.
She flinched, and the sight should not have cut through him with the precision of a blade, but it nevertheless did. “Do you trust me now, Leo?”
His name in her soft, sweet voice did things to him. Already he was feeling more alive than a man who had been laid low by fever likely ought to. He knew all too well he could not give in to the temptation she presented. His body was not strong enough for that yet.
Not to mention that it was a horrible, awful idea. An impossibility. He could engage in fantasy where she was concerned. He could employ his hand. But he must not allow it to progress any further.
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