BODILY NEEDS
Chatting with the lass who claimed to be a maidservant in his limited French was pleasant. At first Braden was sure he’d misunderstood her offer of a bath. Was this some new trick of the Devil? The jailer had told him to be gone, and he doubted the Duke had a tour of the castle in mind when he freed him.
However, the lass insisted, though she wrinkled her nose. He apologized, admitting his dire need of the bath she promised. Warily, he followed her into the Keep and up a flight of stone steps. Strange how he’d yearned to be outdoors yet the longing to be clean enticed him inside, or mayhap it was the alluring smile.
But who had sent her? Whoever it was, he was grateful to him. He fixed his eyes on the swish of the appealing derrière as she climbed the steps, but it occurred to his confused mind that in his day men didn’t send lasses to deliver their messages. Surely his benefactor wasn’t a woman?
The answer came when the door the maid led him to was thrust open and a woman rushed out holding a bundle of clothing which she dropped upon colliding with the French lass.
The servant swore in her language, then begged the other’s pardon and bent to gather the garments from the floor.
Braden came face to face with a woman of the nobility, a green-eyed blonde whose richly embroidered gown showed far too much of her admittedly astonishing breasts. If his sister had worn such a garment she’d have been sent packing back to her chamber.
Her curly hair was bound up tightly into a knotted affair on the top of her head. She wore no veil, only a narrow black ribbon laced into the knot. If he pulled the ends that trailed along her neck the tresses would likely cascade down over her shoulders, but he doubted she’d take kindly to him doing that.
She recovered quickly from her obvious shock at the unexpected meeting, thrusting her chin in the air, but the slight quiver of her open lips betrayed her discomfort. She wrinkled her nose, taking a step backwards into the chamber. “Take those away, Simone, and find something—” She glanced up sharply at him “—bigger.”
Simone made a hurried curtsey. “Oui, milady Charlotte.” Then she scurried away, leaving him alone with the stunningly beautiful Charlotte. He hesitated on the threshold, unable to think of anything to say, an unheard of predicament for the glib-tongued Braden Ogilvie. He’d an urge to tell her the pleasant hardening she’d aroused at his groin had convinced him he wasn’t dead, but she’d deem him a lunatic, or a pervert. Such a confession was hardly polite conversation, but then this was a peculiar situation. She too seemed at a loss for words.
He bowed. “I’m Braden Ogilvie, Lady Charlotte, and I apologize for my appearance. It’s been a while since I bathed.”
He rolled his eyes. Men didn’t speak of bodily needs to lovely young lasses.
She raked her gaze over his bedraggled clothing, blushing fiercely. He thanked the saints for his voluminous plaid when his arousal intensified, though he was painfully aware he must look like a beggar. Yet she seemed unable to take her green eyes off him.
“I’ve arranged a bath, Braden Ogilvie,” she managed, averting her gaze. “I’m aware you’ve been incarcerated.”
“Aye,” he replied, noting that she spoke in a similar manner to the Duke. “’Twas Hell.”
She fidgeted with the frilly stuff at the end of her sleeves. “I’m sure.”
“May I enter?” he asked, feeling like a dithering fool.
It seemed to dawn on her he was still on the threshold and smiled. For the first time some of the rigidity left her shoulders. She stepped aside and gestured towards the bathtub. “Of course. Please. Enter.”
He hesitated. In all his misbegotten life, he’d never been in a chamber alone with a woman, at least not a respectable one. “Mayhap I should wait until Simone returns,” he ventured, worried that a noblewoman would expose herself to censure. Things must have changed considerably in three hundred years. And why did she care if he bathed and wore clean clothing? He was nothing to her.
Her frown betrayed hesitation, and he suspected she was a woman who wasn’t comfortable with uncertainty.
“I dinna ken why ye are doing this for me, Lady Charlotte,” he said, “but I assure ye I dinna wish to cause any embarrassment.”
She gaped at him as if he’d spoken in Greek. He’d half a mind to turn tail and leave, but the steam from the hot water beckoned. “Would it be askin’ too much for a barber?” he asked. “To shave my head.” He scratched his scalp. “There’s critters living in the cells that have no place on a man’s body.”
She blinked rapidly, seemingly struck dumb, and he was convinced he’d lost his wits.
Good stuff, Braden. Nought more appealing than telling a woman ye’ve got lice.
To his immense relief, Simone reappeared with more clothing.
Lady Charlotte snapped out of her trance. She took his hand and examined his wrist. “Of course. And I’ll send a doctor to look at your lacerations.”
She held his hand for only a second or two, but something passed between them. It was enough to send more blood rushing to his groin, and he sensed she’d noticed the jolt too if the startled look in her eyes was any indication.
He followed Simone into the chamber and looked longingly at the bathtub. How pleasant it would be to luxuriate in hot water with the delectable Charlotte, but the tub was too small for him, never mind the two of them.
As Simone tugged at his plaid, he turned to thank the noblewoman, but she’d already slipped out of the chamber. Now he’d the dilemma of how to hide his rock hard arousal from the French maid.
~~~
Charlotte pulled the door closed, took a shuddering breath and leaned back against the cold stone wall, her emotions in turmoil.
One thing was for sure, Braden Ogilvie was no simpleton. She should have been repulsed by his odor. His admission he was afflicted by lice, or perhaps fleas, produced an itchy flush over every inch of her skin. Yet she’d been compelled to take hold of his hand and kiss the angry welts better.
She wondered if he had noticed the spark that had passed between them. She suspected from his rapid blinking that he had.
She heard his deep voice from inside the chamber, along with Simone’s tinkling laughter. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes trying to be rid of the tormenting vision that danced in her brain. Simone scrubbing his back, his legs, his arms, his—
Stop!
She needed fresh air, perhaps then she might be rid of the fever that raged in her body. But there was the matter of a barber and a doctor to be taken care of. She should have sent Simone in search of them, then she might have stayed—
She increased her pace, trying to focus her thoughts on the potential of this story for her novel. The loss of his long hair was a pity. But it would grow again, and when she interviewed him she could sift her fingers—
No!
Everything was at risk if she allowed the feelings Braden had stoked to overwhelm her. She was an independent woman, a successful, if clandestine, novelist with a promising career ahead of her. She had the opportunity to influence society in a way few women did.
Her mother had been a beauty, the toast of Scottish society, but she’d given it up for love and buried herself in a remote backwater. Charlotte had sensed her mother longed for the intelligent conversation of the salons, for poetry, for music and laughter. She would never have the chance to know the answer. Euphemia Tremayne was buried indeed. Six feet under.
But Charlotte was alive, and she would take firm hold of everything life offered a single woman, and more.
She set off back for the bailey, pondering if Braden Ogilvie might need attention to his teeth. After all, if they were three hundred years old—
She stopped in her tracks and burst out laughing at the absurd notion. Ogilvie was an oddity, a survivor who was obviously well versed with history and who’d no doubt lived an interesting life. He’d managed to convince her canny uncle of his innocence. But the possibility he’d travelled from the fifteenth century—
She was still chuckling when she reached the fresh air.
SHORN
Braden removed his belt, plaid, and boots, then dithered like a green lad under the maid’s lustful eye. He’d never had any difficulty peeling off his clothes in front of women, but he was uneasy. Had Charlotte deliberately put temptation in his way? His head filled with a strange notion that he was still being tested and having his way with the overtly flirtatious Simone would be considered disloyal to the noblewoman. Not that he found her appealing.
He flinched when the French lass balled up his plaid. “Please dinna throw it away,” he said, unsure why it was important the familiar woollen garment not be destroyed.
She eyed him curiously, but seemed to understand. “I will send it to ze laundress,” she cooed. She folded it and turned away to lay it by the door.
He quickly yanked the filthy léine over his head and hopped into the tub, letting out a long groan of relief as the heat seeped into his bones. He gripped the sides and sank back, his knees protruding from the water.
She turned, raking her gaze over him, but her pout quickly changed to a smirk. “You are in ze tub already, milord.” She picked up a linen from the dresser. “I can scrub your back, si vous voulez.”
He was of two minds. A good scrub sounded wonderful. “I—”
The door opened and her pout returned when a portly manservant breezed in, bearing a stool and a tray, its contents covered by a linen. The decision had been made for him. “Aye, but quickly so yon barber can shave my head.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. She pursed her lips and took her frustration out on his back, while the balding servant prepared the shaving paraphernalia. He relished the relief her scrubbing brought to his itchy skin.
But her touch didn’t arouse him.
He held out his hand and she reluctantly gave him the soap, which he held to his nose. “Smells strange,” he said.
She shrugged. “Parfumé, like any soap.”
He didn’t favor the notion of smelling “perfumed” but supposed such was the fashion in these times, and anything was preferable to the stench of the cells. He soaped his body and bearded face, then splashed the now tepid water over his skin to remove the lather. The soap was an improvement over what he’d been used to. Of course, he’d bathed mostly in the Bay of Oban, chilly even in the summer months.
He now had the problem of how to get out of the tub without exposing his manhood to the maid, but the moustachioed manservant stepped in. “Pass ze gentleman ‘is towel, Simone,” he intoned with a casual wave of the hand, “then vas-t’en. I can take care of ze rest.”
Glowering at the man who was evidently her superior, she thrust a thick drying cloth at Braden then picked up his léine between her forefinger and thumb, holding it at arm’s length. She looked to him for instructions.
“Burn it,” he said.
She smiled in a seductive way that led him to believe she hadn’t given up her pursuit, and left, retrieving the plaid as she exited.
He stepped out of the tub, taken aback when the servant assisted with the drying of his body, but the man persisted. “Do not be concerned,” he said. “Je suis Daniel, the Duke’s valet. It is my métier to assist gentlemen with zer toilette.”
Braden had grown up in a wealthy household, but he and his brothers had served as each other’s valet when necessary. This was a pleasant luxury.
Daniel tucked a dry towel around his waist and bade him sit atop the stool. “It will ‘ave to be cut off if we wish to rid you of ze little creatures zat have taken up residence.” He stepped back, bobbing his head from side to side, eyeing the locks he was about to shear. “C’est dommage,” he murmured with a sigh. “Such a pity.”
Braden had a momentary pang of concern, but mayhap that was how valets spoke, especially French ones. In his day, most educated Scots spoke French. France was Scotland’s staunchest ally. “Aye, ’tis a pity,” he agreed, deepening his voice, “but it must be done.”
The valet winked, increasing his discomfort, then brandished a highly polished metal contraption that looked vaguely like scissors, but with lethal points.
“Alors, first we cut, zen we shave,” Daniel announced. “‘Ave no fear, I have done zis many times. You are not ze first soldier to fall prey to ze tiny crawling things.” He shrugged. “C’est la vie.”
It was apparent Daniel was unaware he’d been a prisoner in the cells. What story had Charlotte concocted? And why?
As the scissors snip-snipped and clumps of hair fell to the planked floor, Braden became lost in thoughts of his brothers. The despair on Callum and Donal’s faces as they disappeared beneath the waves would haunt him forever. He longed for a hint of what had become of them. Daniel hummed a lilting tune as he made quick work of shearing Braden’s head and ridding him of his thick beard. The fancy razor he used didn’t make the normal scraping sounds.
“Voilà,” the diminutive man declared, flicking a cloth over his handiwork.
Braden stood and ran a hand over his smooth face and bald head. Margaret would have laughed herself silly. He was unable to shake the feeling he’d left one world behind and entered a whole new one. His suspicions were confirmed when Daniel yanked the towel from around his waist.
“Maintenant,” he proclaimed, eyeing Braden up and down, “now for ze rest of ze body.”
~~~
On her way back to the remote chamber with a regimental corpsman in tow, Charlotte encountered Simone. The girl bobbed a curtsey. “I’m en route to the laundry, milady, with the plaid. He asked that it not be destroyed.”
Charlotte stroked the wool. Homespun, in shades of muted browns and greys. Something rarely found these days. The wrap was well worn, and certainly needed laundering, yet he wanted to keep it. A prop to support his story perhaps. “Very well. And the shirt?”
“Burned, milady.”
Charlotte waved the young soldier away. “Keep on. I’ll follow you directly.”
When he was out of earshot, she bent to Simone’s ear. “Remember, not a word of this, especially to my sister. I’ll see you rewarded.”
The maid nodded and carried on to the laundry. Charlotte was doubtful she could trust the chit, but had no choice. She was relying on Simone’s dislike of the supercilious Augusta who treated servants like dirt. She hoped the promise of recompense would hold the girl’s tongue at least until she’d completed her interview and Braden Ogilvie was long gone. How to reward her, that was the question. Simone would probably like nothing more than to bed the blonde giant, but that wasn’t going to happen.
If he was to lie with anyone—
Crivvens, again with the sweats and fluttery feelings in the belly. She was definitely coming down with some dire affliction.
She hurried to catch up to the corpsman. She’d deemed it preferable to enlist his help rather than the regimental surgeon. This lad wouldn’t know he was treating a suspected rebel. She’d told him his patient was one of the hundreds of government soldiers imprisoned at Inbhir Nis by the Jacobites and freed after Culloden. It wasn’t as if Braden’s injuries were life threatening. Ogilvie’s was what she’d meant to say.
She tapped on the door and entered without leave, taken aback by the presence of two men in the chamber. She recognized her uncle’s valet, the ever-efficient Daniel, but who was the striking bald nobleman? It wasn’t until he smiled nervously that it dawned on her. She stared. Heaven only knew where Simone had found the trews, the slashed waistcoat, the frilled shirt, the brogues, but everything seemed to fit perfectly. “I didn’t recognize you without the beard,” she exclaimed.
Daniel bowed and left, toting his paraphernalia.
The young soldier cleared his throat. “Ma’am?”
“Aye,” she said hoarsely, frustrated she’d lapsed into common speech. “His wrists, and ankles,” she mumbled.
Braden frowned, but then seemed to understand when he caught sight of the jar of salve in the soldier’s hands. He perched on th
e edge of the bed. “I’ll take off my boots. They’re a wee bit snug.”
The corpsman went down on one knee at his feet. He glanced at Charlotte for a brief moment when Braden got the boots off, revealing the lacerations left by the manacles, then unscrewed the top off the jar and applied the salve.
“Cold,” Braden quipped, reaching for the jar.
Charlotte only half noticed, her attention fixed on his bare feet. His toes were longer than any she’d ever seen, though she had to admit she hadn’t seen many men’s feet—in fact none at all. Writing as Charles Tobias, she had described Pilgrim Peter’s lower extremities in her picaresque novel and it struck her like a lightning bolt she’d had no idea what she was talking about. She’d believed men’s feet were like women’s, only bigger. How wrong she’d been. There was a strength there that—
Tearing her gaze away she hurried to the other side of the bed, needing to put something between her and this fascinating man. The soldier salved Braden’s wrists then left quickly.
“I suppose I should wait,” Braden said as he stood and turned to face her, adjusting the trews.
Still lost in thoughts of his feet, she had no idea what he meant. “Pardon?”
“The salve. I should wait until it dries before I put the boots back on.”
He must deem her a gaping simpleton. “Aye.”
Drat!
“Yes. It will only be a minute or two. Everything fits I see.”
He spread his arms wide, reminding her of his elation in the bailey at being free. How safe she would be in those arms.
What? The wretch has nothing. He’s a nobody.
Yet he grinned as if all was well with the world. “I’m nay used to coverings on my legs. Stockings and my great plaid have always done the job.”
She’d heard of Highlanders who spurned trews, but surely in the winter they provided more warmth? She realized she was craning her neck to see his legs over the bed that stood between them like the Rubicon. The trews hugged his frame, making his legs look even longer, his thighs more powerful. Her eyes edged towards the bulge at his groin. He shifted his weight, obviously uncomfortable under her gaze. Perhaps the trews were a mite too tight. She swallowed the lump in her throat, and gripped the edge of the mattress as the chamber spun.
Highland Tides Page 3
