by Jo Goodman
As if to prove her wrong he gave her what was, in effect, no answer at all. The vision of Rhys bending over Tom, his hands on the old man’s shoulders slowly gliding toward his throat, stayed with Kenna long after she had retired to her room for the night. She left Rhys to seek out Nick and Victorine and do the explanations. It occurred to her once again that he was good at them. No doubt he would convince the authorities he had chanced upon Tom’s body while out for a leisurely ride. She would be the only one to doubt him.
Sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair with hard, impatient strokes, Kenna stared critically at her reflection and wondered where she had found the temerity to confront Rhys with Tom’s murder. Her face seemed singularly lacking in the character that had marked it in its youth. What made her believe she could talk to Rhys in such a fashion and be spared his retribution? She admitted she had no proof that Rhys was doing anything but trying to help Old Tom, yet it struck her as odd that he was in the wood in the first place. She didn’t believe for one moment he was there to remove the trap. More likely he had followed her for some unnamed reason of his own.
The longer she thought about it the more convinced she became that Rhys was bent on hounding her. Hadn’t he met her on her morning ride? Kenna slowly set her brush on the vanity as a thought that would not be contained came to her. If her own horse had found the trap instead of the unfortunate fox, would Rhys have been so eager to help? Mayhap he would have stayed long enough to watch Pyramid trample her. A frisson of alarm touched her and she shivered as she imagined Rhys touching her broken body only to be certain she was dead. Kenna tightened the belt of her dressing gown and the action seemed to ease the hollowness in her stomach though her knuckles remained white against the red velvet knot. She looked once more at her pale reflection in the glass, taking in the bruised shadows under her eyes and the colorless curve of her mouth. Why would Rhys try to kill her now? Didn’t he understand she had died inside the night he murdered her father?
It occurred to Kenna that she should tell him what she suspected. Nicky or Victorine would not believe her; they would humor her and invent excuses for Rhys. But if she confronted Rhys directly, told him that she knew what he was attempting to do, then perhaps he would be startled into a confession. Not that he would actually say anything, but an unguarded look, a movement born of surprise, might give him away. She had no idea what she would do then, or for that matter, what he would do. A sad, ironic smile touched her lips as she thought of offering him her throat.
She heard Victorine’s light footsteps in the hallway. There was a brief pause at her door as if her stepmother were debating the wisdom of coming in to offer some comfort to Kenna for her part in this night’s work. The steps continued and Kenna realized she was glad. Victorine would not have truly understood how Kenna felt about Old Tom’s death. It was a tragedy, to be sure, but not something that should have affected Kenna deeply. Who was Tom Allen after all?
When Victorine’s presence faded as she continued toward her own suite of rooms Kenna marshalled her courage and slipped from her chamber before she could think better of it. Her bare feet made virtually no sound as she padded down the carpeted hallway to Rhys’s room. At the door she hesitated, cautiously listening for sounds that would indicate Rhys’s valet was inside. Hearing nothing, she quickly went in, her heart hammering as she shut the door behind her.
Once she was in Rhys’s chamber the enormity of what she was doing struck her. If one of the servants had seen her, or God forbid, Nicholas or Victorine, she would have hopelessly compromised herself. It wouldn’t matter that Rhys himself was not in the room yet. Her intent, or rather the meaning they would have placed upon her intent, would have been clear. At the moment, dying at Rhys’s hands seemed infinitely preferable to falling into them.
The chamber was dark save for the glow of coals in the grate. Kenna scanned the room rapidly, looking for a place to hide until Rhys dismissed his valet. The only item in the room that offered some protection was an empty copper tub behind the silk dressing screen. Kenna climbed into the tub and waited for Rhys. Somewhere in the room a clock ticked off the passing seconds and for want of something better to do, Kenna counted them until much against her will her eyes drifted closed.
She had no idea how long she slept, indeed, it seemed impossible to her that she could have slept at all, given the discomfort of her hiding place and the pounding of her breast. It took several seconds to clear her muzzy mind as the door to the chamber was jerked open and Rhys entered the room, followed by the shuffling steps of his valet. With some sense of self-preservation Kenna slid more deeply into the tub, tucking her head beneath its copper rim and folding her arms awkwardly about her knees.
“Just help me out of this damn coat, Powell, and you can be off to the comforts of your own bed.” Rhys was carefully enunciating every word as drunks often do when they want to prove sobriety.
Powell had been with his employer too long to be fooled. He helped Rhys shrug out of his tight-fitting garment. “You and his lordship tipped quite a few this evening. You’ll be wanting my remedy for a swollen head in the morning.”
Rhys’s stomach curled as he thought of the foul-tasting concoction Powell swore by. He thanked God he did not often have cause to take it. Rhys normally despised men who sought to ease their troubles in a cup of blue ruin. But Nick had offered him fine Scotch and Kenna’s accusing words this evening had been provocation enough to indulge in an excess of drinking. “Keep your remedy,” Rhys said. “I vow it is worse than the sickness itself.”
Powell shrugged good-naturedly as he folded Rhys’s coat over his arm. “I’ll take this for pressing. Will you be wanting a bath?”
Kenna’s breath caught.
“No.”
Her breath eased out slowly.
“Oh, what the hell.” He pulled off his boots clumsily and dropped them on the floor. They thudded loudly in the quiet room. He took off one stocking and waved it like a flag of surrender, laughing at his own foolishness. “Mayhap it will bring me out of this slow-witted stupor.”
Kenna ground her teeth together to keep from saying anything that would give her away, hoping if she maintained her silence Rhys would change his mind again.
“A hot bath’s just the thing,” Powell said. “I’ll send for a maid and we’ll have you fixed right and tight in no time.”
“I’m already tight,” Rhys said dryly. “Just fix me right.”
Powell chuckled appreciatively and left the room to rouse a chambermaid from her slumbers. Kenna was ready to lurch from the tub and make a dash for the door when Rhys stepped behind the screen, three-quarters turned away from her, and began undressing. Instinctively Kenna closed her eyes tightly as if it would make her invisible while Rhys muttered under his breath about the resistance of buttons and buttonholes being proportional to number of drinks one had consumed. Cautiously she opened one eye and saw him slip out of his shirt and toss it carelessly on the chair in front of him.
She told herself she shouldn’t watch, that it was wrong and faintly immoral not to make her presence known. But instead of closing her eye the other one came open and she stared unabashedly at her first glimpse of a naked man. Once, a few years ago, she had helped Victorine nurse Nicholas when he had come down with a high fever, but even when she had bathed him he had been covered by a sheet. She had had to slip the sponge beneath the linen to cool his feverish body. This was infinitely different, decidedly wicked, she thought, but there was a greater possibility of stopping time than there was of looking away.
Though she had no way of making a comparison, Kenna decided Rhys had a beautiful back. It was smooth, tautly muscled, broad at the shoulders and narrow at his waist. Of its own accord her mind wandered and she could see herself running her fingers down the length of his spine, making him shiver, making him want her intimate touch. She felt a certain heat begin to rise within her as his hands fumbled with the buttons of his trousers and finally dipped his fingers inside the waistband and
pushed them off with his undergarments. He kicked them in the air and caught them, tossing them in the same chair as his shirt. Kenna thought the move was surprisingly graceful considering the foxed state of his mind.
Her eyes flickered down the solid length of his legs and she understood of a sudden why Rhys had no difficulty controlling that unruly beast he rode. Even that son of Satan had to be able to feel the strength in Rhys’s powerful thighs. His buttocks were taut, curving slightly inward at the sides, and Kenna had a barely contained urge to touch him there. Sometimes at night, just before she drifted off to sleep, Kenna would imagine her husband was beside her in the bed. She would turn on her side and curl against the warmth of his back, touch his bare shoulder with her mouth. Her arm would ring his waist and his flat belly would contract slightly beneath her fingers. He would turn over then, drawing her close, but she never saw his face in the dark room. His elegant hand would seek her breast, caress the swollen tip just so, and then…Kenna did not know what happened then and her imaginings always faded with the not knowing.
Rhys reached for his dressing gown and Kenna knew it was unseemly to be disappointed that he was going to cover himself, yet she found herself wishing he would not. His body, any man’s body, was a mystery to her, and she was quite unable to deny her curiosity even if it meant burning in hell for it. If she was consigned to Hades at least she would not go ignorant.
Without looking in her direction Rhys rounded the screen again as Powell returned with a chambermaid. They were both carrying two large buckets of water.
“That was quick,” Rhys commented, taking one of the buckets from the maid as she was in danger of slopping its contents on herself and the floor. His face was wry with amusement as she did not seem to know where to put her eyes.
“Aye,” Powell said. “Her ladyship supposed you’d be wanting to bathe and the water was already being prepared.”
“Kenna?” His voice held an odd inflection.
Powell shook his head and saw the light die in Rhys’s eyes. “Lady Victorine.”
“Ever the thoughtful hostess. Kenna could learn something from her stepmother.”
Behind the screen Kenna clenched her jaw. It didn’t matter that it was true, he shouldn’t have said it.
“I don’t know. Lady Kenna’s a right’un.” Powell turned to the maid. “Go on with you, girl. You’re practically asleep on your feet.” The maid curtsied briefly, put her bucket on the floor, and left the room in a flurry of skirts. “Skittish bit, ain’t she? I think she was wonderin’ what manner of man you are beneath that robe.”
Rhys shrugged. He had already forgotten what she looked like. He dipped his fingers into the bucket and found the water was not too hot for his purposes.
He stepped in front of Powell, blocking his manservant’s path to the tub and with an unholy grin touching his lips he poured the contents of the bucket on Kenna’s upturned face. He coughed to cover her sputtering then turned his back on her and addressed Powell. “Just leave the water there. I’ll see to the bath myself.”
Powell looked at him oddly, his brow furrowed. “It will only take a moment,” he protested.
“No. Leave it. I’ve had enough of your cosseting for one evening.”
Powell bristled, mildly hurt at Rhys’s tone. Young pup, he thought, and made a note to throw open the drapes on the morrow when he roused Rhys. All that harsh winter sunlight should set off an aching head nicely. “Humph,” was what he said though and when he left he shut the door very quietly.
Rhys pushed aside the screen with an impatient movement as soon as Powell was out of the room. Kenna was still crouched in the tub, pushing ineffectually at the strands of wet hair clinging to her face and neck and gulping back air in pitiful sobs. “There’ll be hell for me because of that, Kenna Dunne. I hope you’re happy I saved your miserable skin, to say nothing of your reputation. Get out of there. I’ve seen sewer rats in the worst alleyways in London that look better than you.”
Kenna could not even take offense at his remark, for she knew he spoke the truth. Gripping the sides of the tub she pulled herself upright and finally managed to stand in her sodden garments. The water made a funny little pinging sound as it dripped from the hem of her robe and her hair and hit the bottom of the tub.
If Kenna had been thirteen Rhys would have laughed at the forlorn expression on her face, knowing it was part of her winsome charm to garner his sympathy and sidetrack him from his lecture on ladylike behavior. She would have joined him, laughing at herself, earnestly relating how this madcapped scheme had gone awry and how she didn’t care a fig about being a lady anyway. He saw something flash in her eyes, as if she were thinking how simply she could have managed him and this situation if they could only roll back the years. The look was shuttered an instant later, hidden by her thick lashes as she studied her bare feet and hugged her arms to her breasts, covering them where the sodden robe and gown were outlining her every curve.
“What are you doing here?” he asked roughly as he picked up a towel and threw it at her. “And what possessed you to hide in my tub? Couldn’t you have chosen a better place? Under the bed, perhaps. Or in the wardrobe.”
Kenna mopped her face with the towel. “I didn’t think of it,” she said into the depths of the towel.
Rhys simply looked at her incredulously, shaking his head. “You obviously weren’t thinking when you came into this room. You’re not a child any longer, Kenna. No one would believe you came here just to talk.”
“But I did,” she said quietly. She squeezed water from her hair and wrapped it in the towel. Her arms immediately came up to cover her breasts again. “I did,” she said with greater force. She looked at him then, willing him to see the truth in her eyes. It didn’t work because his stony gray gaze had dropped to her chest and was slow to lift.
And uncomfortable moment passed until he met her eyes and said, “I know you did. No doubt it will shock you that I wish it were otherwise.”
It did shock her and she could not hide it. She looked away, uneasy beneath his regard.
Rhys sighed. “Get out of the tub, Kenna. I am not going to force myself on you. Credit me with a modicum of chivalry. Here, take this.” He gave her his wrinkled shirt and she looked at it stupidly for a moment before she realized he meant her to put it on. “Go ahead,” he ordered. “Take off that wet robe and gown and put the shirt on. It’s more modest than your present dishabille. Don’t worry,” he said wickedly, intent on goading her. “I’ll shut my eyes.”
She felt heat flower in her chest and creep over her face. “You knew all the time I was here?”
“Not until I stepped behind the screen. Did you really believe I didn’t see you?”
Kenna clutched the shirt to her, the flimsy protection giving her an inordinate amount of courage that faltered as soon as she saw the devilish glint in his eyes. “But…but you could have said something,” she stammered. “Instead you…you—”
“Took off my clothes? Is that what you’re trying to say? Tell me, why didn’t you stop me?”
“Because…because I thought I still could get away unseen.”
“You were always a horrible liar, Kenna,” Rhys admonished her, clicking his tongue. “Why didn’t you close your eyes?”
“I did! At least…at least for a little while I did.”
“And I shall do the same.” He crossed his arms in front of him and shut his eyes. “Come on. In my present condition the room is spinning madly.”
“Turn your back,” Kenna said stubbornly. That Rhys did so without protest amazed her. She quickly pulled off her robe and nightgown and put on his shirt, finding that she too had some difficulty with the buttons and nothing to blame it on but the state of her nerves and her own foolishness. Occasionally she glanced at Rhys while she fumbled with her clothes but he stood the whole while with his back to her. It wasn’t until she stepped out of the tub, wishing she had some sort of covering for her bare legs, that she saw why he had been more than happy to
keep his back turned. In the cheval glass beyond him her every movement was mirrored. “You were watching the entire time!” she accused.
Rhys turned around. “I was.”
His easy admission startled her and she looked at him, not understanding why he didn’t lie. Something of what she was thinking must have shown in her face for Rhys answered her as if she had spoken aloud.
“I’ve never lied to you, Kenna.” He watched confusion register on her face then he walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge. “Now what is so important that you would beard the lion in his den?”
“Do you have another dressing gown?” She laughed nervously. “That isn’t why I came. But I can’t, you know, talk to you dressed in this fashion.”
“A pity. It’s a lovely fashion.” His eyes swept the gentle curves of her coltish legs. His shirt drooped comically about her shoulders and the cuffs covered the backs of her hands, but her legs were so long that the hem only reached mid-thigh. He felt another stirring inside him, stronger than one he had felt as he watched her undress, and he fought to tamp it down. “I think there’s another in the wardrobe.”
Kenna shot him a grateful look and crossed the room to get it before she refined too long on the cause of the huskiness in his voice. She huddled on the padded window seat, curling her feet under her and wrapping her toes beneath the hem of Rhys’s robe. The robe, like his shirt, had the faint odor of the tobacco he occasionally smoked and something else she could only identify as Rhys. To keep from thinking about it she unwrapped her hair, threading her fingers through it to untangle the knotted strands.
“It’s cold by the window,” Rhys said when Kenna seemed lost in her thoughts, far away from him. He wanted to draw her out, understand her reason for coming to see him, though he doubted he would like what he heard. “Why don’t you sit by the fire?”
“No. No, I’m fine here.”
“Kenna,” Rhys said gently as she looked anywhere but at him. “Let’s have done with this. Tell me why you’re here or take yourself back to your own room. I pray you can manage it without tripping over your brother on his way upstairs.”
