“Water,” she said. “I need water.”
“Demanding for a prisoner, aren’t you?” He cocked his head at her, allowing all the anger and disdain building inside him to show. “If you cannot ask with manners, you shall not have it.”
“Please,” she gritted.
The gentleman within him—or what remained of it—knew he ought to feel at least a modicum of guilt at being so rigid and unfeeling toward a woman who had just been ill for so many days. But the agent for the Crown, who had dedicated half his life to service, refused to bend.
She is a Fenian, he reminded himself forcefully.
And not only a Fenian, but a woman who abducted his nephew and held a pistol to his head. That the pistol was empty was a matter of curiosity and not a reason to soften toward her in any way.
He fetched her the water, careful not to turn his back to her in case she was perpetuating an elaborate act, and returned to her side, holding the cup to her lips. She drank greedily, gulping. He watched her throat work, noting how creamy and pale it was in spite of himself.
“Enough,” he snapped with more rancor than necessary, withdrawing the cup. “Any more and you shall be sick. You will stand now and walk to your bath, or you will forfeit the privilege.”
Wordlessly, she stood on limbs as unsteady as a newborn foal. There was her daring, in full evidence. Silent and proud, she painstakingly walked toward him. Until her knees gave out, and her legs buckled beneath her, sending her to the floor.
With a muttered curse, he went to her, not thinking twice about scooping her into his arms. She bit her lip and closed her eyes as he held her, her body trembling.
Fucking hell.
The gentleman within him told the agent of the Crown he was being an arse, forcing her to walk when she was so obviously weak.
He told the gentleman to go to hell.
“No bath, then,” he said sternly, moving to place her back upon the bed.
“Please,” she said. “A bath, Your Grace. Please.”
He weighed his options. She did need one. And perhaps if he helped her, had her fully at his mercy, he could garner the information from her he so desperately needed. His men had discovered as much about her as they were likely going to: she had rented rooms near a millinery shop where she worked for the months before she had been hired on as governess for Edward. Her references had been forged, but forged with an impeccable attention to detail.
Her landlady proclaimed her quiet and proper, with a brother who visited often. A small, slight, tow-headed man who was almost certainly not the brother of the raven-haired Irish termagant in his arms.
A lover perhaps. A Fenian certainly. Mayhap a Fenian lover.
The thought made him scowl.
He wanted the brother’s name.
He wanted all the information she had to give.
“I will carry you, but on one condition,” he told her. “You must answer my questions.”
Chapter Seven
Bridget had promised to answer the Duke of Carlisle’s questions. But she had not promised to answer them truthfully. As he carried her with ease down the long hall to another chamber—to his chamber—and the steaming bath awaiting her within, she reminded herself of that important distinction.
She did her best to ignore the broad, solid, muscled strength of Carlisle’s arms engulfing her and the chest she was nestled against. No man had ever lifted her in his arms or held her so gently, as if she were fragile. That the duke was the man responsible was an improbability she would investigate later. When her mind was functioning properly. When her skin did not itch. When her body did not ache.
When she did not feel as if she had been run over by a carriage.
Inside the elegantly furnished bathroom adjoining his chamber, a male servant—the man, she guessed, who had drawn the heated water in the tub—bowed and left without saying a word. The bath looked like heaven, but when the door closed behind his back, they were alone. Carlisle’s penetrating stare was upon her, drawing her attention from the paradise she wished to enter.
She could not look anywhere but into it. “Thank you. I believe I can stand on my own now. You may put me down and go.”
“I will not be leaving you alone, prisoner.” He raised a brow. “Do you think me a fool? Nay, do not answer. Clearly you do, else you would not have dared to flee with my own bloody nephew with the aid of the head groomsman. Tell me, how did you ever imagine you would be clever enough to escape me once I had realized what you’d done?”
Desperation had made her reckless. His proclamation of additional arrests at the wedding breakfast had told her just how limited her time was. At any moment, she could have been implicated by whomever had been captured. Often, the jailed were only too happy to reveal information concerning their confederates if it meant saving their own skins.
She swallowed, choosing to ignore what he had said, for she had neither the intellectual acuity nor the strength to battle him just now. “I do not require your assistance in the bath. Free my wrists, if you please, and I shall manage perfectly well on my own.”
He laughed bitterly. “Regardless of whether or not you desire my assistance, you will have it. I do not trust you, madam, for reasons which must be painfully obvious to you.”
Her heart thumped madly. Surely he did not mean to watch her while she bathed? Or—good, sweet Dia—to help her bathe?
“You cannot intend to remain here while I conduct my ablutions?” she asked.
“Of course not,” he said, and relief swelled within her. “I intend to conduct your ablutions myself.”
Any relief she had been experiencing dispelled instantly. She gaped at him. “But Your Grace, your presence within this chamber, alone with me, is improper in itself. To bathe me yourself…why, it is not only ludicrous, but impossible. I’ll not countenance it.”
Without missing a beat, he spun on his heel and strode for the door. “No bath then. Pity, for the water is warmed and prepared for you.”
“No,” she cried, for she had seen the bath. Had smelled it—it smelled of citrus and something else, something clean and wondrous. Her skin was fairly crawling with the need to be cleansed within its warm, welcoming depths. He could not take that from her. Not now.
Another thought occurred to her then. A sinful, vile one.
The Duke of Carlisle was attracted to her. He had kissed her. More than once. His tongue had been inside her mouth, his hands upon her body. Every action had shown her she was a woman he found desirable. A woman he wanted.
Perhaps she could use that against him. Maybe she could turn this situation about so that the advantage was hers. Maybe she could bring him to his knees after all. Not today, it was certain. But one day soon. Wherever they were, wherever he had brought her, it was not prison. Instead, it appeared to be a regular home attended by servants. Which meant all was not yet lost for her.
Escape remained possible.
“I give in,” she conceded, knowing it was for her own cause. That was the sole reason why such a surrender was acceptable. It was either do what he wanted, or deny him, lose her bath, and continue on her way to prison when she was well enough. This was her best chance to regain her freedom. Her only chance. Cullen needed her. “Bathe me if you would like.”
The words felt wrong as she said them, leaving her tongue like a leaden weight. But they also did strange things to the rest of her body. A fluttering began in her belly, and it had less to do with hunger than with the knowledge the Duke of Carlisle was going to attend to her in most intimate fashion.
His jaw tightened, the only sign he had even heard her words. Instead of answering her, he returned them to their initial position, by the bath, Bridget still in his arms. Slowly, he lowered her to her feet. “Steady now. Hold on to me if you lose your balance or feel weak.”
He withdrew his wicked-looking shiny blade and brought it toward her. She flinched, uncertain of what to expect from this dangerous, enigmatic man. He plucked the sleeves of her chemi
se one at a time and laid the knife to them, cutting them with ease.
“This is my best chemise,” she protested as it fell away in a silken rush of sound, dropping to the carpet at her feet.
“Not any longer,” he said, but his voice had changed. Thickened.
She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes to find him examining her frankly, his eyes hot and consuming. Bridget remained still beneath his searing perusal. Even had she wanted to cover herself, she could not have done so given her bound wrists. Whether it was the strangeness of their situation or the lingering effects of her wounding, she could not say, but she stood before him boldly, not a hint of embarrassment.
She had been reduced to a body of demands and wants, stripped of her garments and her dignity both. And if she did not take care, she would suffer further depravations, not just at the hands of the Duke of Carlisle, but of her jailers when he delivered her to prison.
She shivered at the notion. “I am cold, Your Grace.”
“Into the bath with you,” he said gruffly, flicking his gaze away from her body at last. His expression remained as rigid and unreadable as ever. “The water will warm you.”
Lifting her back in his arms, he hauled her up and lowered her gently, almost deferentially, into the bath. Hot water licked at her bare skin, and she could not quite squelch the moan of appreciation that rose in her throat. It emerged from her. His eyes darkened, fastening hungrily upon hers.
“You are warm now, yes?” he asked.
He had forgotten to mockingly call her prisoner, and for a beat, the intimacy of the moment pulsed between them, terrifying and tempting all at once. She was naked, and he towered over her, an enemy she could not dare trust. Bridget felt strange, her body soothed by the languid pull of relaxation, the sweet-scented water dredging her aches. Beneath it all, there simmered the remembrance that this was no ordinary encounter. He was her captor, and they stood on opposite lines in this unspoken war.
“Warm enough,” she responded grudgingly. “Will you not free my hands whilst I am at my bath? You have my word I shall not cause a moment of trouble.”
He raised an imperious brow. “Madam, you are nothing but trouble, and your word means less than nothing to me.”
She supposed she had earned such a reaction. Very well. She would wash herself as best she could manage with her bound hands and painful arm. She winced as she extended her arms and fiery agony tore through her. “Soap, if you please.”
But instead of handing her the bar as she supposed he might, he ran it over her skin himself. Beginning with her back and shoulders. Then her arms, carefully avoiding her bandaged wound, before swirling over her breasts. Bridget knew she ought to protest against his ministrations, but her wounding and subsequent illness had sucked all the fight from her. She had neither the strength of muscle nor the strength of will to defend herself.
And so, she sat still as the Duke of Carlisle washed her quickly and impersonally, as if she were a small child. He seemed to take great care in avoiding touching her directly. He soaped her breasts beneath the water, and she could not quell the reaction it provoked in her, a desperate ache and the sudden puckering of her nipples in spite of her body’s general weariness. Biting her lip, she averted her gaze away from him. Her response to him was the same as it had been the day she had first set eyes upon him at Harlton Hall, knowing full well who he was, and it remained every bit as unwanted.
He made quick work of her breasts, then withdrew the soap.
She flushed. “If you please, I would like to finish the rest myself.”
“No.” His tone was clipped. Abrupt.
This man had no mercy for her, and though she supposed she had earned none, her cheeks burned nonetheless. “Please.”
She could not bear the thought of him cleaning her elsewhere. Her breasts had been intimate enough. But the rest of her…it was out of the question. Surely no gentleman would force such a thing upon her.
“Tell me what I want to know, and perhaps I shall,” he relented.
Her gaze swung to his, and her flush deepened when she realized he had begun to roll up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. For a beat, her breath caught upon the sight, so masculine. Also intimate, laden with both his intent and the silent tension budding between them.
“What do you want to know?”
“How long have you been in London?” he asked calmly, his eyes never wavering from hers.
“I have not been in London at all,” she forced herself to say. “I was lately at Edgware, in service to the Earl of Chalmsford.”
His jaw tensed. “I warned you against lying to me, did I not?”
Yes, he had. She tipped up her chin, facing him defiantly, though it required all the strength she had left. “I am not lying.”
A slow smile curved his beautiful lips. “You are lying, and we both know it. Time for the rest of your bath, prisoner.”
He retrieved the soap, which smelled, it belatedly occurred to her, of him: warm, manly notes of ambergris and something earthy, yet clean. Now even her skin would remind her of him. Of this moment of ignominy that somehow seemed less humiliating as she watched his capable fingers wrap around the soap before disappearing beneath the water.
Keeping his strokes measured and quick, he worked the bar over her feet first, moving his way to her ankles and calves. She held her breath, heat rising once more in her cheeks. In her blood. Blossoming inside her. No one had ever performed such a personal ministration upon her, not since she had been a girl, and even then it had been nothing but a wash basin and a cloth by the kitchen stove for warmth. Her mother had not been able to afford the luxury of a deep tub such as this one.
When he reached her thighs, she clamped them together, denying him access to the most vulnerable part of her. Even if it was the part of her that cried out the most for his touch. He stilled, glancing up at her.
His face was granite hewn. Immovable. “Open.”
Her skin was aflame. She stared into the impenetrable depths of his dark gaze. “No.”
“Madam, I would prefer not to make you submit. I do not like this any more than you, but it is a necessity.” As usual, his tone brooked no opposition.
“Cut my bonds.”
“That is out of the question. You have already demonstrated you are dangerous and untrustworthy.” His other hand disappeared beneath the water, gripping her knee. “I shall repeat. You can open and allow me to cleanse you properly, or I will make you. The choice is yours.”
She closed her eyes against the sight of him, so strong and vital and handsome, his hands in her bath. But still she could feel his touch. He would not be shut out completely. The Duke of Carlisle was too great a force for that. She was tired and drained, and her arm ached. She was at his mercy, with no one she could trust and nowhere to go. What choice had she?
Once more, she gave in, allowing him to guide her legs apart. Allowing him to swiftly pass the soap over her nether regions. Even when he had finished and his touch was gone, she felt him. She felt him like a brand.
Attempting to maintain her composure, she remained still, eyes closed. His fingers were in her hair then, undoing the braid someone had plaited it into during her illness. Fingertips worked over her scalp. Again, he was more tender than she would have imagined, and she could not squelch the soft sigh that escaped her as he massaged her aching scalp, made her hair wet, and worked suds into it.
When he guided her head back to the inviting warmth of the water, she did not even protest. She lay limply, at his command, allowing him to do with her what he wished just as long as it meant his knowing fingers could continue their magic.
She would allow herself to be suspended from time and reality just this once.
It didn’t matter who he was, not when he washed her hair with the gentle concern of a lover.
He was a monster.
That was the only explanation for the painful cockstand he was currently sporting.
That was the only reason why the
sight of his willful Fenian prisoner, wrists bound before her, body at his mercy, breasts on display as they rose above the water when he guided her head back, made him harder than he had ever been. Harder than a marble bust. That was why he could not stop devouring her with his sweeping gaze that took in all of her, as much of her as he could at once. Her nipples were the pink of a new rose. They jutted forward like offerings, begging for a tongue. He had no business looking at her or lusting after her.
She was his prisoner. His enemy. Strike that. Not just his enemy, but a dangerous one he would see clapped into prison when he was finished with her. One he would need to use every weapon in his admittedly vast arsenal against. Every mind trick, every manipulation, each show of force he had been taught—he would employ them all against her. Anything to get what he needed. To prove her guilt and the guilt of those conspiring along with her.
To send them all to jail where they so richly deserved to be.
And yet, when his instinct called upon him to be harsh with her, to use force, to push her to the brink however he must in order to gain the knowledge she withheld from him, he found himself being gentle instead. He worked soap into her scalp, rewarded by the breathy sighs from her lips.
Lips that were the same lush pink as her nipples.
Damn it, he was staring at her nipples again, washing her hair as if he were her servant. Or as if she were his mistress. It struck him then, like a lightning bolt, she was the only woman he had ever tended to so intimately. He wondered now why he never had, for the act of cleansing the Irish hellion in the tub filled him with a deep sense of gratification.
It was not the woman, he reminded himself, but the action. She was a desirable female. Her breasts were lush, full, and high, her waist narrow, her limbs curved and petite, her bottom full, her mouth kissable, her…
Fuck.
He was doing himself no favors.
“Time to rinse,” he ordered in a gravelly tone, guiding her so that her hair was submerged in the tub, the only portion of her protruding from the water her lovely, pale face. Her eyes were still closed, and he ran his hand through the silken strands, using his fingers to comb out the tangles, until no trace of suds remained.
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