With some of his soreness relaxed away, he washed his hair, an awkward task using only one hand. He was trying to keep his right hand dry, as Sylvia instructed. The blisters did seem to finally be healing. Since he’d seen her to her room, he’d have to change the bandage himself.
Ah, sweet Sylvia. She’d been heaven in his arms. Had it not been for the approaching Revenuer on horseback, he could have taken her right then and there on the windswept cliff top, the pounding surf a backdrop to their lovemaking. He’d made her moan and sigh, and laugh. She didn’t laugh nearly enough. And her sensuous sighs when he’d found her sensitive spots…
He dipped the pitcher in the water and poured it over his head.
She was willing. He’d bet his last farthing on it. Heaven knew he wanted her. It was just a matter of timing, and location. And getting rid of their blasted chaperones.
Finished washing, he draped the cloth over the edge and leaned back, his head resting on the back ledge, and stared at the flames, his eyelids growing heavy.
Sylvia had asked for his help in dealing with Ruford, but now it seemed Teague was the bigger problem. Could they outbid the behemoth, and continue to get their cargoes from Ruford? And what made Teague so confident he could handle all of the loads? Even if he had more men in his gang—young and healthy men—there were still the patrolling Revenue agents to consider.
Hearing a soft gasp at the doorway, Tony opened one eye.
Sylvia stood there, barefoot, clutching a thin cotton wrapper closed at her throat, her curls tousled, her mouth open in a silent “oh.” The way the soft cotton hugged her form, she couldn’t have anything on beneath it. He licked his lips.
After thoroughly enjoying the sight for a moment, he realized she wouldn’t have known he was down here, in the tub. Stupid, selfish idiot. He’d used her hot water. “Give me a moment, and I’ll set more water on for you.” He sat up.
She held her hand out to stop him. “No, no, I just came down for, um, I was a bit hungry. Yes, I came down for some cheese and a cup of tea.”
“Tea.” He leaned back again, water sloshing. It was warm rather than hot now, but still pleasant. As was the company.
“And cheese.”
She still stood in the doorway, ready to scurry away. “Well, don’t mind me.” Tony closed his eyes.
There was a long pause, then he heard movement. Soft footsteps across the flagstone floor, the rustle of her wrapper. The clatter of dishes. More rustling.
“Would you, um, do you want anything?”
Leaping out of the tub and having his way with her on the kitchen table would probably be considered poor manners. “Whatever you’re having.” Now that he thought about it, he
was
hungry.
He heard the scrape of wood on the floor, and opened his eyes. Sylvia had pushed a chair next to the tub, and placed a plate with cheese on the seat. She was bent over at the hearth, pouring tea into two cups. The firelight rendered her wrapper sheer. He was right—not a stitch on underneath. He longed to map her curves with his hands, his mouth, kiss her sweet flesh. Their escapade on the cliff earlier that night had left him wanting more, much more.
Once she’d eaten, he’d repeat his offer to fix her bath. Offer to wash her back. Maybe wash her hair, as well. He imagined Sylvia relaxed and naked in the tub, leaning back as he ran his fingers through her silky curls and caressed her bare skin, slick and glistening from the warm water. He’d lift her out and dry her with the towel warming by the hearth, caressing every inch of her soft skin. There’d be no barriers between them, not people, not clothing, nothing to stop them.
Galen would never know, as long as they remembered to put the salt cellar and pepper grinder back on the table afterward.
Sylvia caught him staring, and blushed. She quickly set one cup on the chair, and sat down on the floor, her back against the side of the tub. If she’d sat in a chair, she’d be high enough to see into the tub, and see his growing interest in her presence. But this way, she was close enough for him to touch her.
They ate in silence for a few moments, Sylvia studying the depths of her cup between delicate bites, Tony studying Sylvia. He recognized the moment she began to feel at ease again. Soon after, she turned to face him.
“Why are you doing this?”
His left hand had crept along the edge of the tub, just a fingertip away from stroking her bare neck. But she hadn’t paid any attention to his wandering hand. “Because a pitcher of cold water didn’t seem adequate tonight.”
Her lips curved, almost a smile. “No. The roof, Doyle’s cottage, Ruford and Teague…” She waved her hand, encompassing the house and its inhabitants, perhaps even the village and environs.
“I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?”
She gave him a sideways look, her chin lowered. “Why are you doing this?”
He sighed. His hand was covered in blisters; he’d cheated death by working on the edge of a slick roof forty feet above the earth where sane men stayed; he’d pretended to be a smuggler, knowing the government would see it as no pretense if he was caught; worked himself to exhaustion helping near strangers repair their homes; and just tonight had fought a man twice his size in defense of a woman he’d known only a week. A woman who had become his acquaintance because members of her gang had abducted him and knocked him unconscious.
Why, indeed?
Sylvia was on her knees now, leaning closer, intent on his answer, her green gaze focused on his face, her lips slightly parted.
He sat forward, cupped her cheek with his left hand, and kissed her. She stayed perfectly still, allowing him to brush his lips against hers, to caress her cheek with his thumb. He pulled back a fraction, giving her a chance to escape should she want it.
She followed him, not allowing a break in contact. Fire coursed through his veins as their breath mingled, and she kept her lips pressed against his. Someone moaned.
They separated a hair’s breadth. “Good answer,” Sylvia whispered.
T
ony licked his bottom lip, tasting Sylvia, wanting more. His heart beat faster, watching Sylvia watch him, her gaze riveted on his mouth. She grabbed him, her delicate hands holding his head, fingers plunged into his hair, and pulled him close, her kiss demanding, exploring.
He opened, wondering how she’d react. She stroked the tip of her tongue along his lip, shocking a moan out of him, before she slipped inside and deepened the kiss. She was tentative, barely touching his tongue before she retreated.
Apparently her first husband had a lot to answer for, as there was much in her education left incomplete. Tony was happy to teach such a willing pupil.
With one hand still cupping her cheek, he brought his free hand up to her neck, lightly caressing the sensitive flesh, as he claimed another kiss. He delved deep into her mouth, thrusting in and out, mimicking the motion he had every intention of making, very soon.
Raising her mouth from his, gasping for breath, her fingers still tangled in his hair, she gazed into his eyes. “Now I understand.”
He dropped a kiss at the corner of her mouth, and worked his way up to her ear. “Understand what?”
“Why you didn’t…kiss me…like that…before.”
He smiled against her cheek. “Because I knew that once I tasted you, I wouldn’t be satisfied until I held you, made you writhe in pleasure, and buried myself deep inside you?”
“Oh.” With her lips parted, he kissed her again. He let his left hand drift down from her cheek, along the smooth column of her neck, down to the swell of her breast. It fit his hand perfectly, as he knew it would. He dipped his hand in the water and then cupped her again, dampening the thin cotton, revealing a dusky circle.
She drew her shoulders back, giving him better access. He swept his thumb back and forth, eliciting a soft moan from Sylvia. He almost didn’t hear it over the thudding of his pulse. Blood pounded through his veins, quickening his breathing.
She returned the favor, trailing her fingers across his chest, dipping her hand below the water, coming agonizingly close to discovering just how much he wanted her. He forced himself to be still and allowed her to explore him, her fingers getting bolder, tracing a damp path from his throat, down his shoulder, across his chest, circling the little nub that hardened under her touch.
Just as he was going to drag her into the tub on top of him, she looked up at him, her eyes dark with desire, the green irises almost gone, eclipsed by her dilated pupils. She licked her lips. “Perhaps we should—”
Footsteps in the hall.
Blast.
Sylvia’s eyes widened. She glanced at the doorway, back at Tony, then was up and dashing out the door, a flash of bare leg as she turned the corner.
His heart still racing, Tony leaned his head back, and barely refrained from banging it on the edge of the tub. Good thing he was sitting in tepid water. Cold would be even better. Icy.
Galen entered a few seconds later, yawning. “Well, isn’t this a fine sight to greet the morning.” She barely paused before she tied on her apron and set to work. “Come down to breakfast a might early, did you?”
“Haven’t been to bed yet.” And oh, the plans he’d had for bed…
The tub was in front of the hearth, where Galen needed to cook. She stood beside the tub, feet spread, arms folded over her chest. “Hungry, were you?”
The plate, littered with crumbly bits of cheese, was on the chair seat, as was his cup. Had she noticed the second cup on the floor?
He sighed and closed his eyes briefly. She hadn’t moved. “Would you be so kind?” He pointed at the towel folded on the edge of the hearth.
She shook it out and held it open, but didn’t let it go.
Well, fine.
Tony stood up in the tub and took the towel from her, and wrapped it around his waist. Only then did Galen busy herself with pots and pans. He stepped out, dried off, and pulled his breeches back on, but didn’t bother with his shirt.
He was almost done putting the tub away when Galen spoke again.
“My lady probably has something for those bruises.”
He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder, but of course he couldn’t see his back. It probably had the outline of every rock he’d landed on when Teague had thrown him down like a child’s doll, not to mention the almost-healed tattoo. “They’re fine.”
Galen grunted. “Men.” A moment later she tossed him one of yesterday’s scones. “You haven’t been to Australia, have you, laddie?”
He didn’t dare ask her for butter, so he ate the scone dry. “I have never set foot off this benighted island.” Being on Nick’s ship didn’t count, since they had still been tied up at the dock. She grunted, but did not continue the conversation.
After a last look to make sure he’d cleaned up his mess, Tony grabbed his shirt and trudged upstairs to bed. Outside in the pale dawn light, birds were cheerfully chirping.
Too bad he didn’t have a gun.
Sylvia awoke with a start as the clock struck noon. Galen had brought her a cup of tea, now cold on the bedside table, but let her sleep. Had Galen witnessed her cowardly flight up the back stairs? She flung the covers back and got up to dress.
There was no need for her wrapper—her cheeks heated at the memory of last night. She imagined she could still see the damp imprint of his palm on the wrapper, directly over her breast, as she’d fled up the stairs. She seemed to be in a perpetual state of embarrassment since Tony had arrived. And in a perpetual state of hunger, that no food she knew of could satisfy.
It had never been like this with her husband. She’d done her duty with Hubert, and really, that’s all it had been. Duty. He’d never made her heart pound, her blood race, or taken her breath away—in a good way, that is. Never before had she felt this need to constantly be near a man, to touch him, have him touch her. Hear his voice, see his smile.
But Tony was only here temporarily. Developing feelings for him could only end badly for her when he left. Even worse, since he had revealed a wanton side of her that she would now have to acknowledge, finding a husband would be even more difficult. She wouldn’t be easily satisfied. Only a man who could rouse her to breathless excitement would do. So far, she’d only encountered one, and he wasn’t husband material.
Disgruntled, she dressed without washing and went straight to the stillroom, not bothering to detour through the kitchen for a quick meal. She pulled the account book from its hiding place, grabbed the writing slate and chalk, and sat on the bench at her worktable.
Minutes later, she realized she had drawn nothing but nonsensical images on the slate, and hadn’t thought of a single useful thing. Other than the memory of Tony’s kisses last night. How he’d looked in the tub, clean and wet, with water glistening on his golden skin, soap bubbles hiding the most interesting parts…
Jimmy sauntered in, yawning and scratching his jaw. He was old enough that he now needed to shave almost twice a week. Thinking of beard stubble made her think of the whisker burn on her neck, not to mention how it got there. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she hurriedly wiped the slate clean.
“So, what’s our counteroffer?” Jimmy leaned his palms on the table beside her, peering over her shoulder at the slate.
Sylvia cleared her throat. “I’m not sure we can make one that’s acceptable to all parties.”
“We don’t need to make Teague happy, just Ruford.” He swung one leg over the bench and sat down. “
Can
we pay the captain more than Teague has offered him?”
She glanced over the account book. “Money is so tight already. Perhaps Spencer would accept a smaller percentage? And we could look for more ways to economize. I could wear my gray gowns another year.” The thought made her cringe inwardly. She could always try dyeing the fabrics again. That wouldn’t cost much.
Jimmy entered into the spirit. “We don’t really need sugar for our tea, or preserves for the scones. And mackerel is always easy to catch—we’ll eat more fish. Will that be enough?”
“Perhaps. We still have to finish repairs from the storm’s damage. We didn’t count on those expenses.”
“Well, maybe there’s something other than money, something we can offer Ruford that Teague can’t. Other than you, of course.”
They discussed possibilities, none of which seemed likely to succeed.
She refused to give in to desperation, but was about to throw down her chalk in disgust at their lack of progress when Tony walked in. Her heart skipped a beat, then settled into its normal rhythm, albeit a tad faster.
The mischievous glint in Tony’s eyes faded somewhat at the sight of Jimmy. “When you get a moment, if you wouldn’t mind…” He held up his right palm to her, with the dirty bandage.
“Now is fine.”
Jimmy got up to retrieve fresh bandages from a cabinet. “That was a first-rate show last night.”
Sylvia coughed. She thought it had been Galen’s step she heard last night heading toward the kitchen. Tony glanced at her, then at Jimmy, his expression giving nothing away.
“When Teague dropped you like a sack of potatoes on the beach, I thought you were done for.”
Sylvia started breathing again. Jimmy handed her the bandages, then rummaged in the cupboard for the correct jar of ointment. He was slow in the task, as he kept looking over his shoulder at Tony, his voice betraying his growing excitement.
“And then when you taunted him, and he charged like a bull, and you sent him sailing up and over, like he was…was…”
“A sack of potatoes?”
“Exactly!” Jimmy shouted. “Can you teach me that trick?”
Sylvia plucked the jar from Jimmy’s wildly waving hand before
it
went sailing.
“It’s no trick, just a simple equation involving momentum and leverage, but yes, I can show you.” Tony sat down and rested his hand on the table in front of Sylvia. She cut the old bandage off, holding his wrist to keep his hand steady.
“That would be capital!” Jimmy slapped him on the shoulder.
Tony flinched. His face betrayed no emotion, but since she was holding his wrist, Sylvia had felt his involuntary reaction. Pain.
Jimmy declared his intention of raiding the kitchen, and Tony waved him out the door.
“You’re hurt.” She inspected his palm, saw no sign of infection, and slathered it with ointment.
“No, it’s feeling much better.” He closed and opened his hand several times. “See?”
“I meant your back. Your shoulder.”
“I’m fine. Perhaps a little stiff from lying on the beach last night.”
Sylvia shook her head as she wrapped the new bandage around his hand. “Betsy told me about the blood.”
He went still. “Beg pardon?”
“When she was doing laundry, Betsy noticed dried blood on your shirt. Inside. Near the shoulder.”
“Oh. That. ’Tis nothing.” He gave her his cocky grin.
“Then you won’t mind letting me have a look. Take off your shirt.”
“Ah, I understand. You just want to see me half-naked.” His grin had become a comical leer.
She almost smiled back. “I saw you…last night. But not your back.”
He heaved a dramatic sigh. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
He swiveled around on the bench, facing away, and tugged his shirt off over his head.
Sylvia gasped. His back was ablaze in color, covered with bruises of varying sizes, some fresh in livid blue and purple, others fading green and yellow. There were irregular marks from last night’s fight, where he’d impacted on the rocks of the beach. Fist-sized marks from last week, when her men had mistaken him for a Revenue agent.
Most intriguing was the palm-sized discoloration on his right shoulder blade—what she’d thought was a birthmark. Parts of old scabs remained, and there was still some swelling amidst the marks. But there was a distinct pattern.
“A tattoo? You have a tattoo of—” She traced the lines, the points. “A mariner’s compass?” She looked at Tony in a new light. She’d never known any gentleman who had a tattoo. Then again, she didn’t know all that many gentlemen. Smugglers, rogues, and other scalawags made up most of her circle of acquaintances lately.
She’d seen a tattoo only once before, on the forearm of one of Hubert’s crewmen, who had told amazing but farfetched tales of sailing to the South Seas.
He grunted. “Been wondering what the hell it was.”
“You didn’t know?” If she remembered the man’s story, it had taken over an hour of painful pricking to render the pattern.
“I, um, wasn’t exactly conscious at the time of application.”
Well, if the process was as painful as she’d heard, perhaps that was for the best.
“My friend Nick had me try a seasick remedy while we were on board his ship, and after the wine we drank at Ben’s wedding breakfast…”
“You were drunk.”
“And sick.” He snorted. “A compass. Of all the—”
“You didn’t choose the design?”
He shook his head. “Must have been Nick. He was always trying to watch out for me when we were in school.”
“I don’t see how—”
“Much of that day is fuzzy, but I do remember mumbling something about having no direction in my life.” He smiled at her over his shoulder. “Nick apparently took it to heart.”
“Direction.” Sylvia closed her eyes. He could stop in their village, stay a while and play smuggler, because he had nowhere else to be. No direction, no agenda, no plan. She was frantically planning for the winter, and he probably didn’t even have a plan beyond next week. Further proof of how wrong he was for her.
Still, she could enjoy the view. Like admiring a work of art in a museum—didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to take the art home and keep it.
She patted his left shoulder, the one not bruised. “Stay here. I have some liniment that will help the soreness.”
“Galen said you would. That’s who came into the kitchen after you left, by the way.”
It shouldn’t matter—she was a grown woman, a widow, and Galen was not her mother. If Sylvia wanted to have a tryst with a handsome, charming man, then it was nobody’s business but her own. Still, she felt heat bloom in her cheeks.