by Tess LeSue
She opened the door to a flood of servants. She stepped back to let them pass, astonished. How many people did it take to make up a bed? None of them spoke English. At least none of them responded to her when she spoke to them, so she assumed they didn’t speak English. They trooped in, carrying bedding, a tin tub, buckets of warm water, towels and bandages.
Emma rushed to put herself between the servants and Tom’s bed, so they wouldn’t see him. She kept chattering in English, hoping they’d be distracted enough by her not to pay any attention to the lump in the bed. Most of the servants ignored her completely, keeping their eyes fixed on their tasks, but one girl gave her a nervous smile and nodded occasionally. Perhaps she understood a word or two. Emma wished she spoke Spanish. The Reys were of Spanish settler stock, so the household probably didn’t know any English. Calla had told her the rancheros were snobby about their origins and didn’t like to be confused with the Mexicans. “Even their Spanish is snobby,” Calla had sniffed. Emma didn’t know about that, but they were sure rich, judging by all these servants. Money did have a way of making people give themselves airs.
Within no time at all, the servant girl had set up a pallet on the floor for Emma. It looked more comfortable than Emma’s bed back in Moke Hill. They’d used feather quilts and white linen, and it appeared just like a fluffy white cloud. Emma was looking forward to crawling into it. She hadn’t slept in a bed for the longest time.
By the time the servants left, they’d also unfolded a dressing screen around a brass tub full of steaming water. The servant girl paused by the door after her companions had trooped out. She said something in halting Spanish.
“Gracias,” Emma hazarded.
“Do you have any idea what you’re thanking her for?” Tom rasped after she’d locked the door behind the servants.
“Of course I do,” Emma said imperiously. “I’m thanking her for my bed. And that bath, which I intend to make use of, so you’d better let me fix you up before that water goes cold!”
“You can’t make use of it,” he said, sounding appalled.
“And why not?”
“Because I’m here.”
She quite enjoyed how panicked he sounded. He was almost lively. “The tub is screened.”
“By that? You can just about see through it.”
It was true. The panels of the dressing screen were made of cream-colored calico. The shadow of the tub was clearly visible through them.
“So close your eyes,” she suggested with a shrug.
“It ain’t decent,” he protested.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said as she parted the canopy and pulled the comforter off him, “I won’t mind when you’re not decent, if you don’t mind when I’m not.” She reached for the waistband of his trousers.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Having a look at your hip.”
He just about fell off the bed in his attempts to get away from her. His efforts had him bleeding again, and he covered the lovely white bed with blood. He also went from chalk white to bluish gray in a matter of seconds.
“Look at what you’ve done,” she scolded. “You’ve made a mess and hurt yourself into the bargain. Now stop being such a child and let me take care of you.”
His lips were blue. That couldn’t be a good sign.
“Tom,” she said, holding him down and looking him directly in the eye. “I’m a nun. I’ve seen naked men in my time. I’ve cared for them, I’ve bathed them . . .” She’d done a lot of other things to them too, but that was a story for another day. “Trust me. I won’t be scandalized. I won’t be shocked. I won’t faint dead away. I will treat you gently and with respect.”
He was frozen under her hands.
“I know this is embarrassing,” she commiserated. “But a little embarrassment never killed anyone.”
He closed his eyes.
“All right?”
He nodded imperceptibly.
About bloody time. Before he could change his mind, she flicked open the buttons and pulled his trousers off. And then Tom Slater was buck-naked and entirely at her mercy.
16
IT TOOK EVERY ounce of willpower Tom had not to get an erection. And it was no small task. He was sprawled on his back, naked as the day he was born, while the good sister scrubbed the grit out of his wound. She’d been kind enough to throw a towel across his nether regions, but it was the thinnest scrap of toweling Tom had ever seen, and since the wound was on his hip, she was only a hairbreadth from touching him every time she moved. His modesty was hanging by a thread. He stared at the white bed canopy, perspiring from the effort it took not to get visibly aroused. Somehow, even despite the pain of his wound, he found the whole situation disturbingly erotic. The September heat; the slow slide of the wet cloth over his skin; the strangely sexual juxtaposition of the stinging pain in his hip and the uncurling pleasure in the rest of his body; the smell of her; their silence; all of it combined to make him light-headed with lust. He’d never fantasized about nuns in his life—but he had a feeling they’d be featuring in his dreams from now on.
She wasn’t businesslike about things, which was a big part of the problem. She moved slow and soft, and everything about her was earthy and sexy and hypnotic. Her fingers brushed against his hip and thigh as she cleaned his wound with the warm water. While one hand ran the washcloth over Tom’s torn flesh, the other rested on his leg, the fingers curled around his calf. It was maddeningly distracting.
“I’m amazed you’ve got any blood left in you,” she said as she wrung the washcloth out. The water in the basin was red. “I’m just going to change the water, and then I’ll sponge you down.”
Any blood that was left in him was rapidly heading south. He should absolutely take this opportunity to tell her to stop. She was too innocent to know better. She was a nun; she couldn’t know the effect she was having on him. How could a chaste virgin have any idea of what it did to a man to be helpless and naked and sponged? She couldn’t possibly know that his head was hot and steamy with delicious images, that he was aware of every last inch of himself, that he had to clench his fists to keep from touching her.
Get up. Cover yourself. Get out of this goddamn situation right now. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. He felt drugged.
It was probably the blood loss.
Or maybe it was exhaustion.
Or, worst of all, maybe it was her. No woman had ever had this narcotic effect on him before. And she wasn’t even trying.
That didn’t bear thinking about.
“I’ve got blood all over me,” she observed, as she came back with a basin of clean water. “I’ll have to soak my habit after I bathe.”
Christ. Don’t think about her out of the habit. Don’t think about her bathing. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t stare at her; wouldn’t imagine what she looked like without the headdress, without the thick, shapeless black sack of a habit; wouldn’t imagine her body, white as milk from never seeing the sun, soft, curving, slick with water from the bath . . .
Hell. Closing his eyes just made the images more vivid.
“Try and relax,” she said, and he heard the gentle splashing of water as she wet the sponge.
Relax. As if that was even a possibility. His teeth were clenched, fit to crack.
He almost moaned when she started in on him again. She couldn’t wash him briskly, could she? With swift, practical strokes? No, she had to take her time, had to try to relax him with long, lazy, warm circles. It was excruciating.
She started at his feet and worked up, and she was thorough. Every toe received detailed attention, and then she worked her way up his legs, the cloth rubbing long arcs over his tense muscles, the pressure firm enough to make him wince, but after the pressure came incredible waves of pleasure; spirals of desire spread from her touch. He felt like he was sinking th
rough the bed. Time lost all meaning. He was nothing but singing nerve endings and tingling skin.
When she reached his chest, he just about came off the bed. His nipples were painfully sensitive; when the sponge passed over them, he lost the battle with his willful cock. It swelled hard against his stomach. It was taking all his good sense as well as his blood supply. What he wouldn’t have given for her to slide that sponge down, over his quivering, clenched stomach until she found the hard, throbbing length of him.
He was going to hell. Who had thoughts like these about nuns? He couldn’t keep himself in check. Mumbling a panicked excuse, he rolled over onto his stomach.
“Watch your hip,” she said, sounding worried.
To hell with his hip; it was his cock he was worried about. Specifically, that she would see it. The scrap of toweling wasn’t doing anything to provide cover, and the damn thing was standing at attention like a flagpole. At least if he was facedown she couldn’t see the effect she had on him. He pressed his face hard into the bed. Tell her to stop. That’s enough now. But his idiot tongue wouldn’t work. And then the sponge started up again, over the plains of his back and down his spine. It was warm and slick and firm: exquisitely torturous. And then, just when he thought it couldn’t get more torturous, it did.
“You’re mighty dirty,” she said. And goddamn if her voice hadn’t thickened . . . if there wasn’t a huskiness to it . . . a tremor . . . a pulse of desire in it.
No. You’re imagining it.
But was he? He certainly wasn’t imagining the charged silence. It was like the air during a lightning storm. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end with anticipation. He also didn’t think he was imagining the slight hesitation in the swipe of the sponge. Or the faint sigh she gave . . .
He didn’t know if he could take much more.
Luckily, he didn’t have to find out, because a knock at the door saved him. Saved them. Because he didn’t think he had imagined that sigh.
He felt an intense blend of relief and disappointment when she flung the comforter over him and went to answer the door. He was still aroused. Painfully so. He tried to get himself under control as he listened to her usher in more servants, who brought food and fresh water.
Sister Emma kept saying, “Gracias,” in an atrocious accent. “You’re going to have to teach me to say a few things,” she sighed after she’d closed the door on the servants.
He stayed silent. He didn’t think it was a good idea for him to teach her anything. He thought the only thing he should be doing was staying well away from her. He pretended to be asleep. Not least because he couldn’t be talking to a nun while he was rigid as a randy mustang.
He thought this was about as uncomfortable as he could get. But that was before she tried to bandage his hip. He stayed stubbornly on his stomach, keeping up the pretense of sleep. He threw a soft snore in for good measure. When she tried to roll him onto his side, he gripped the edge of the mattress and held firm. He felt her freeze. Maybe she had an inkling of why he was staying planted facedown at that point, because she retreated. He breathed a sigh of relief when she drew the comforter back over him and left him in peace.
At least he thought she was leaving him in peace . . . until a while later when she started shucking her clothes.
“I guess you’re more tired than you are hungry,” she’d sighed when she’d first retreated from him. He heard her sit down. Then nothing. The silence stretched out.
He opened his eyes a crack. She’d sat herself on the couch, next to the food. She’d poked through the covered clay pots, sniffing at the contents. Then she plucked a purple grape and sank back into the couch. She looked exhausted. But that didn’t stop her from torturing him with the grape. How in hell did she make eating a grape look so sexy, so sinful? She didn’t just eat the damn thing, she played with it. Her sharp-cornered lips sucked on it. Slowly. She stared into the middle distance, lost in thought, as her mouth drove him wild. He hurt from it.
When she was finished the grape, she bent double and unlaced her shoes. She moved with grace, unthreading each lace at a glacial pace. It gave him time to watch her. She eased her boots off and flexed her feet. God, she was pretty. Natural. Unaffected.
“Well, Mr. Slater,” she sighed, “if you’re having a sleep, I’m going to take advantage of that bath.” She stood abruptly and hiked her skirts up. He had to bite his tongue to stop from swearing. She was undressing here? In full view? Luckily for both of them, she had her riding breeches on under her skirts, so when she yanked her habit up, she didn’t show him anything he hadn’t already seen when she was mounting her horse. But then the woman went to take the breeches off too. As she worked the buttons, he screwed his eyes shut. His cock was like a ridgepole. She was getting naked. Right now. Right there. The woman wasn’t just innocent; she was dangerously naïve. His eyes burned behind his eyelids. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to peek. He heard her humming as she shed her clothes. He didn’t know how much longer his willpower would hold.
* * *
• • •
SHE KNEW HE wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t even making a good show of it. His breathing was irregular, his body was stiff as a board (in more ways than one), and he kept cracking an eyelid to spy on her. Emma tried not to laugh as she relaxed back in the tub. Now that she was safely behind the dressing screen, she could grin. That was one pent-up man. He radiated sheer, unadulterated need.
She was more flattered than she cared to admit. Especially since the woman he knew was smothered in heavy black wool and a silly hat, wasn’t wearing a lick of paint and must smell to high heaven. Maybe he had a thing for smelly women.
She hadn’t been expecting him to enjoy a wound cleaning that much. She’d been rather tingly at the sight of all that lovely bare male body, but it had come as a shock to realize he was tingling too. Not least because he was in pain. But also because he thought she was a nun.
But her nunhood certainly hadn’t stopped him from standing at attention. She felt rather smug as she lathered up with the soap. The water was only tepid, but it was a hot evening, so Emma didn’t care. It was bliss to scrub the dirt away. Her hands slid over the fuzz on her scalp. It was nice to know that even dirty and smelly and nunny, she could still make a man’s body sing. Imagine how irresistible she’d be when she was clean.
She wasn’t a fool. She knew nothing was going to happen between her and Tom Slater (for too many reasons to count), but it was soothing to know that it could happen if she wanted it to. She sang softly as she soaped herself. He was one beautiful man. He had the most divine body, golden skinned and muscular . . . Oh, those muscles . . . His arms, his chest, his stomach; every inch of him was hard and defined, and there was a delicious trail of hair disappearing under the towel she’d draped over his hips. She had to admit she’d stolen a peak before she’d covered him up and was unsurprised to find that he was just as well proportioned below the waist as he was above.
She hadn’t felt sparks like these in years. If ever.
Sparks had never been simple for Emma, and even less simple when she’d been Seline. Desire was a complicated thing for a whore. And sex was more complicated still. Sex was a job. It was work. It wasn’t romance and seduction and toe-curling lust. At least not for the whore. Most men took their pleasure quick, and they took it without a single thought for her side of the experience. They were paying not to think about her pleasure. There was no question of desire when a man took you like that. Sex was a chore and a labor. Using your hands or your mouth, or just letting them thrust away at you—it was a drudge of a job. And it chipped away at something inside of you. It dulled you. But now and then you sparked for a man. Sometimes for money, and sometimes not; sometimes a man took it slow and was courteous and seemed to care for your comfort through the experience, and a single spark might fizz. Now and then, you met a man like Luke Slater who wanted you to have as much f
un as he did, and there would be a Catherine wheel of sparkles. But they were as rare as hen’s teeth, and when they came along, you grabbed hold of them and enjoyed them for all that they were worth.
But desire for its own sake . . . that was a funny thing. Desire happened by accident, as a side effect. When you used your body for work, there was a blockage in your head that kept it dammed. But even with her history and her job, she’d always felt that there was the capacity for grace in lovemaking. Not in the kind of sex she had for money, but in real lovemaking. When a man wanted you and you wanted him and it was tender and gentle and you stayed pressed body to body long after the climax, holding each other through the night; when they shared themselves with you, dropping their guard and telling you intimacies; when you looked into their eyes and you saw right into their heart. Those were the keenest moments in her life, the ones that gave her hope.
Because life could be down-in-the-gutter bitter and dirty, and it was easy to despair. But now and then you saw a flash of something in people that lifted you up, that made you realize that above the gutter was the whole spread of sky with all of its blazing stars. So long as you had the strength to look up. And then people could show you what real grace was. Like that old prospector, McGinty, who had fallen like a stone for Nora Paul. Nora had been a whore for her whole grown-up life, and she wasn’t young. She was missing teeth and had sad eyes; she had wrestled with a liking for the bottle and lost her son to whooping cough. She was a woman with a worn face and a sore heart. But McGinty had spent one night with her and lost his wits with love. When he looked at her, he didn’t see a battered whore; he saw Nora. A girl who’d been born and raised in West Virginia, who liked tapioca pudding and mulberries eaten fresh from the tree, who cried when she heard a hymn well sung and who couldn’t walk past a dog without giving it a pat. And damned if McGinty hadn’t married Nora Paul and set her up in a white clapboard house by the stream where he panned for gold; damned if they didn’t have a pack of dogs and didn’t attend church on Sundays, where they sang together lustily, sharing a hymnbook; and damned if he didn’t think he was the luckiest man on the face of the earth to get to sit next to Nora Paul and call her his wife. Oh yes, there was grace in lovemaking; some divine spark set off a blaze that turned lovemaking to love, and brought a body back to life.
