Lothar’s test came back to Scarlet’s mind. “The physician tested everyone?”
Ute nodded, pain shrouding her usually clear gaze. “Even me, who’ve cared for him for so long, wasn’t pure enough to get inside the tower. But the lady spared no coin, let me tell you. She searched far and wide to find those with the good kind of blood so as not to infect the master. And then the physician tests them, to make sure.”
“What happens when someone’s blood isn’t…” Scarlet stopped, unwilling to use the word “pure” but not knowing any other fitting term.
Ute’s cheeks grew blotchy red. “The special brew in the vial turns green.”
A wave of sympathy engulfed Scarlet for the anguish in the old woman’s eyes made her look twice her age. Poor, loyal woman. Yet another thought clouded the first. What sort of flaw in one’s blood could make it turn green?
Scarlet pushed the nagging suspicion aside and concentrated on the day’s task. The thought of bringing all that water up the tower stairs didn’t particularly please her. But she’d want a bath once in a while too, and surely the master did. She shook images of his naked body from her mind.
She was still fighting off visions of a naked Fredrick by the time she came to the tower. Her heart beat madly against her chest. She still wasn’t sure if stealing hadn’t been better than standing by while a man was kept chained to the wall.
Scarlet pushed the thought away. Not her place. She’d be gone soon, never return, no use getting in trouble.
Darkness greeted her when she unlocked the door. Letting her eyes adjust to it took only a few seconds. She’d always felt a kinship to darkness, to the night. She grabbed the small candle and put it on his tray.
The image of the master, his red eyes glowing softly, made her swallow hard. After climbing up the steps, she stopped and, this time, she knocked.
Some grumbled reply came to her through the thick door. She pushed against it with her hip. A smell permeated the whole place. Like musk, but sweeter.
A single beam of pale light hit the floor at an angle. Particles of dust floated around the room and danced in swirly patterns. Scarlet closed the door with her heel.
“I have your breakfast here, Master Fredrick,” she said, for some reason feeling the need to whisper.
There was a strange stillness in the air, as though she’d just entered after a violent gust of wind had knocked everything over. Like a blanket settling down.
“Leave it on the table,” his voice said from the deeper darkness across the circular room.
She did, keeping well outside the worn mark on the rug.
After she’d placed his cutlery and serviette by the plate and filled his cup with steaming water for his tea, Scarlet took a few steps back. Something wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t explain it.
“Is everything all right, Master Fredrick?”
“Why do you ask?” There was a point of irony in his voice.
“Are you too ill to come to the table? I could…”
She’d been about to offer him to put the tray on his bed. Could she, suspecting, knowing how dangerous he was? How dangerous and alluring and irresistible he was. She clearly remembered how little in control she’d felt when he’d kissed her.
“Take the tray to me, you mean?” he finished for her.
She hated the note of sarcasm in his tone, the mockery. Why did he make her feel this way for showing sympathy?
A faint sound announced he was moving. Scarlet fought the urge to back up against the door. Trepidation fluttered in her gut as a shadowy lump stood erect and approached the center of the room. Master Fredrick stopped right at the edge of light.
Scarlet’s chin dropped. “What happened?”
A nasty bruise covered his temple, went over his left eye then blackened the bridge of his nose. His lower lip was split as well. His opened tunic revealed more bruises on his pale chest.
“I fell.”
Derision dripped from his words. Scarlet grabbed her hands behind her back. “You fell hard. Can I bring you anything for the pain?”
He shook his head, dislodging strands of white hair from his delicate ears. He took a step closer, which drew the chain taut behind him. “Will you give me my bath today?”
“Pardon me? I don’t think…it wasn’t part—” Scarlet stammered. He was supposed to take his own bath, not with her around. Or this is what she’d thought. Him naked while she…
She’d seen naked men before. Too many, in fact. But they didn’t matter. This felt different, for some reason. Did it mean he mattered? She threw a quick peek at the copper bathtub by the door.
He merely watched as she struggled to form a polite and coherent reply. As though amused, he crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side, waiting patiently. Feeling a fool, Scarlet gritted her teeth. “Of course, Master Fredrick. That’s what I get paid for. Ute said she’d have the water waiting downstairs by the time you finish your breakfast.” There.
She hadn’t linked so many words in years.
He nodded. “I’m looking forward to a nice, hot bath.”
The grin he bore looked more like a snarl than anything else and Scarlet balled fists at her sides to hide her uneasiness. Her excitement, as well.
Blood beat a liquid tempo in her ears as she tried not to imagine him naked. She failed miserably.
While he ate, she busied her mind on other matters, such as how she would give the man his bath without coming in contact with him.
“Why do you always tiptoe?” he asked, giving her a look through a section of bangs.
Scarlet started. “I don’t tiptoe.”
He nodded. “You do. Why?”
She didn’t tiptoe. Did she? After a while, she just shrugged. “I don’t want to make noise, I guess.”
He stared a long while before he tipped his chin at her. “Frightened children tiptoe. But you’re a woman. Are you frightened?”
A tiny sound from down below alerted her keen senses and saved her from answering. Yes, she admitted, I’m frightened. Everything here is frightening.
She looked at the doorway, even if she knew no one would be coming through it.
“You have good ears,” Master Fredrick commented between mouthfuls. The man ate as though each bite were the most succulent he’d ever tasted.
“They keep me out of trouble,” Scarlet replied without thinking. She clamped her mouth shut, frustrated at showing such openness to this man.
He lifted his head, sniffed once. “Can you smell this?”
Scarlet took in a slow breath through her nose, leaving her mouth partly opened so she could taste the air as well. Nothing at first, but then a very faint odor reached her. “Sage?”
“Close. Lavender. It’s my bath.”
Scarlet swallowed hard. With a nod, she left the room, ran down the steps, and emerged just as a pair of lads had deposited four buckets filled with steaming water and beside which a small wooden crate contained bottles, soaps and quilted linen. The smell of lavender was indeed very strong here.
She thanked the lads, took two of the buckets and brought them up the steps where she emptied them in the copper bathtub. It took her about ten trips to fill it. The whole while, Master Fredrick stared at her silently, as though gauging her, weighing her against some mental scale only he knew. Scarlet’s cheeks felt flushed with the exertion and his scrutiny. Finally, puffing slightly, Scarlet emptied the last bucket, set it down by the door then put her fists on her hips. What now? The chain wasn’t long enough.
“It has wheels,” Fredrick offered, standing.
Scarlet checked underneath the bathtub. So it had. She barely needed to spare a look at the mechanism to know how it worked. She’d always been good at things like these, even if she couldn’t even write her own name. Releasing the four foot-triggers, the bathtub was raised slightly off the floor. Quite ingenious.
Master Fredrick came to the end of his chain. “It took your predecessor a good hour to figure the wheels. It was very e
ntertaining.”
“I’ve always had a good eye for gears and…”
“And…?”
“Nothing,” Scarlet replied, busily maneuvering the heavy contraption from against the wall.
“When I ask a question, I expect an answer,” he said, his voice much deeper now.
She turned to look at him, noted the downward slant of his mouth. She groaned inwardly. “Locks,” she said. “I’ve a good eye for locks.”
He didn’t push it.
Scarlet guided the bathtub farther into the room, onto the carpet, making sure no water was wasted. When she turned to gauge his reach, she gasped.
He wore nothing but a collection of nasty bruises and his chain.
Her reaction was amusing to Fredrick. Here was a woman obviously hardened by life, with senses almost as keen as his own, yet she gasped at his nudity. Even averted her eyes.
If her reaction was interesting, his own was proving embarrassing. Already his member was growing by increments the more she wrestled the bathtub into place, with sweat dampening her lips, making her hair clingy and frizzy. Fredrick took a step closer, hurting his already raw ankle. When it was close enough, he helped, pulling the bathtub closer to him and turned it so it faced the door. Had she done it on purpose, he wondered, presented the bathtub so he’d have his back to her while he bathed? For some irrational reason, he wanted to watch her while he took his bath. He wanted her to watch him take his bath.
Scarlet brought the wooden crate containing his things. His favorite lavender soap smelled strongly now—good old Ute. Scarlet stopped, looked at the chain on the floor then his arms, as though trying to gauge his reach.
She was already well inside it.
But Fredrick didn’t let it show. Instead, he put the stops back on the wheels and stepped in. The water was still very hot, thanks to her quick work. He’d had baths weekly, but they’d been the cold sorts. He hadn’t had hot water in his bath in over four months, since the maid before the last servant had left—had been killed.
And the same fate awaited this woman here as well. Averting his gaze, Fredrick sank in the bathtub and let out a long sigh of contentment.
Though he would be healed before nightfall, several bruises from his encounter of the night before still marred his pale skin. And he knew she’d noticed, felt glad, in fact, of the way she seemed upset by it.
“I need the soap,” he said, reaching toward her.
She didn’t even flinch. All the others before her, except for his manservant, had looked horrified at the prospect of coming so near. With a couple of cautious steps, she reached out and proffered the thick bar of soap. On purpose, he let his fingers graze hers. Goose bumps appeared on her neck and down her cleavage. His erection became even tighter.
She retreated, but not as far as she’d originally been. With an occasional glance her way, Fredrick lathered his chest then his legs. When he came to his ankle, he could tell she wanted to take a closer look. The lock beaded with water.
Fredrick hooked his leg over the rim, letting his foot dangle out.
With an inclination of her torso almost imperceptible except to him, she leaned closer. This was no idle curiosity. A professional was presently looking at his lock. He could tell she was mentally picking it just by the way she stared unblinkingly, her fingers twitching. So she’d been a thief at the least, perhaps even disguised as a paid escort. He’d seen them often enough—young women trained to pick their patrons’ pockets just as efficiently as bed them. This last thought, with accompanying images of Scarlet with other men, sent a jolt of jealousy through him.
“What do you think?” he asked, masking his emotions with the stoic mask he’d perfected over the years.
“It’s expensive. Custom-made. But it’s strange though…” she stopped, as if she’d just spoken too much.
He nodded, patiently waiting. Time was something he had plenty of.
“It’s made of silver,” she said finally.
“No other lock you’ve seen is made of silver?” He knew the answer. No one would use such an expensive material to lock someone down. Unless said someone was able to break out of any type of metal. Except silver.
“No, never. It sure costs an arm.” She smiled in a guarded, cautious way.
Costs an arm?
He grinned inwardly. Yet at the same time, his old, old mind began to consider the possibilities. The gears in his brain began turning. Could she pick this lock? he wondered. Would she? Surely she must have been afraid of his cousin and Lothar. Who wouldn’t? Could he convince her to do this for him?
Fredrick von Innsbruck the First, the Second and the Third, all one and the same man, hadn’t led a virtuous life. Far from it. But he had one quality. Patience. To be as old as he was, he’d needed to be patient, to let things come instead of chasing after them. And this woman, this prickly and edgy woman, would spot him a league away if he merely thought of chasing after her. She had the senses of a bird of prey. Fredrick licked his lips. Using Scarlet, the only decent person he’d met in the last several cold, lonely months, wouldn’t be the highlight of his life. But whatever it took, he would do. She just had to pick the damned lock—otherwise, he’d die here. All he had to do now was convince her he wasn’t dangerous…
Fredrick looked at her as Scarlet stood next to the bathtub, the crate in her hands, an expression he couldn’t quite define on her angular face. She was so beautiful to him, not in the elegant ways of ladies of the court, or through sheer sexuality. Too thin for her height, she had rough, skinny hands and out-of-control hair. All the privations she must have endured showed well enough in her hard lines and dark eyes. She wouldn’t have graced any artist’s tableau. But to Fredrick, Scarlet was beautiful because she was real.
His cousin was wrong. Scarlet wasn’t a small apple, but a woman. A resilient, bristly, beautiful woman.
Slowly so as not to startle her, Fredrick reached out, let his index finger brush against her wrist. Though he could tell she wanted to pull her hand away, she didn’t. With eyes half closed, he traced the edge of her rough palm then each finger one at a time. A shiver shook her.
Fredrick let his other hand rest against the bathtub’s rim—well in view. His member now bobbed almost to the surface between his bruised knees. He knew she could see it through the soapy water. This pleased him. Foolish pride. Through the fabric of her dress, her nipples hardened into garnets. Remembering the taste and silky quality of them, Fredrick let his hand travel up her sleeve, wet spots seeping into the gray cotton, and finally reached the collar. He ran his index finger slowly down along the simple trim of her cleavage and marveled at the willpower she displayed by staying perfectly immobile, though he could tell she wanted to run.
“How old are you, Scarlet?” he asked gently, knowing anything could trigger her defensive instincts.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
He guessed mid- to late twenties but it was hard to judge with someone who had lived such a hard life. She could have been eighteen for all he knew.
Instead of continuing down into her cleavage, something he wanted more than anything else at the moment, he turned his hand so his palm faced up and retraced his journey, only this time, he followed her too-thin neck, the sharp jaw and pointy chin. Lips like pink orchids glistened softly in the dim light. Such pretty, freckled skin for one so unrefined. He liked her nose, come to think of it. A sharp nose that ended in a slight downward curve. A strong nose. Yet he avoided looking into her eyes. He couldn’t take the chance she’d see through his ruse.
To his complete shock and excitement, Scarlet reached out and touched his cheek. The rough finger traced his cheekbone then the bridge of his recently broken nose. It’d heal. It always did.
Bracing herself against the edge, she knelt by the bathtub. After pulling her sleeves up over the most sinewy forearms he’d seen on a woman, she took the square of quilted linen and rubbed it too hard against the bar of soap. As though checking for his approval—which she h
ad, by God—Scarlet slowly slid her hand inside the washcloth. Fredrick had to bite down hard to keep his face impassive when she rubbed his shoulder, each one in turn then back again, then his arms. She took care not to press too hard around the many places where bruises marred his skin. The whole while, he looked at her hands, never her eyes. Never look into her eyes.
After she rinsed the washcloth, she repeated the process with the soap and came up behind his head. Using her fingers like a comb, she raked his hair back, sending tingles of pleasure down to his curled-in toes then ran the washcloth from his scalp to the ends of his hair. Heat from the water and her gentle ways made him sigh. When she was done with his hair, rinsing profusely and wringing out the excess water, she returned to his side and lathered the washcloth again. This time, Fredrick could readily guess her destination.
Slowly, without looking into his face once, Scarlet pressed the washcloth against his knee. Getting the hint, he pulled his foot out of the water and let it rest against the rim. She didn’t hurt him once when she went around his swollen and raw ankle. How could a woman so obviously rough be so gentle? For the first time in his life, someone was washing him, washing his feet, for Pete’s sake. He felt torn between guilt and pleasure, but he remained motionless, afraid to his core to break the spell.
With a muscle twitching at her jaw, Scarlet slid her linen-covered hand past his knee, down along the top of his thigh, before swerving inward. Fredrick stopped breathing.
He couldn’t take much more of this!
But he had to. If he startled her, she’d never trust him again, and he’d be stuck here forever. Only she could help him now. Only she could open the damned lock. After—if—she opened the lock and set him free, he’d take care of things from there. And God help his cousin.
Ride it, he told his feverish body. Don’t let it ride you.
Fredrick closed his eyes and let the hot water and this peculiar woman’s ministrations take him to a place he’d forgotten existed. Peace.
He felt the washcloth going around his aching member then under between his cheeks, before coming back up again. His lower belly constricted when Scarlet spent too long washing him there, his balls constricted. Damn. He’d spill himself if she didn’t stop.
Wolfsbane Page 5
