Page 103 of The Duchess Curse

“I opened the window last night to cool you off.”

He glanced over his shoulder and cursed again then tried to get out of the bed. But she tangled herself up with him so completely he couldn’t, and he cursed some more.

“Your language has devolved since getting ripped through with a bullet.”

“Almost dying always makes me curse more.” He tried to leave the bed again.

But she scrambled over him, hitting the floor before he did and bolting toward the window. She slammed it shut and called out into the hallway, “He’s awake! He’s awake and he’s angry!” And it felt so damn good. She smiled, unable not to, and joined him in the bed again, being careful not to jostle him.

“How can you smile after you were shot and nearly lost all your blood and I only just saved you from dying?”

He lifted his good shoulder, let it drop. “Because I’m not dead. And I’m glad about it.” He tweaked a lock of hair near her cheek. “My mouth tastes like death, though.”

Ned and Bentley appeared at the same time, both flushed and wide eyed. Susan was not too far behind them. They took charge, Susan urging Guin into a bath and Ned trying to help Bran to a chamber pot, which Bran insisted he could absolutely do on his own.

She sank into the warm water, sunlight filtering through the stained glass above, and still she grinned. Voices rose, high and happy for the first time in days. And they didn’t know who’d tried to kill her yet, but Bran was alive. Alive.

And she was soaping her arms, hair piled high atop her head, when the voices faded and Bran stepped into the bathing chamber.

“You should get back to bed,” she said, sinking beneath the water to hide her breasts.

“Don’t want to.” With his good arm, he dragged a chair near the tub and stole the soap from her hand. “You took care of me, now let me take care of you.”

She glanced toward the door.

“I sent Susan away. I sent all of them away. The doctor is apparently coming later, though.”

“He’s been here every day, though I’m not sure he’s done a bit of good. He keeps calling me Duchess Witch.”

Bran’s eyes narrowed. “So I’m going to have to kill him.”

“No!” She laughed, a true laugh that felt like bubbles lifting her up.

He ran the soap down her arm, up again and over her shoulder. As he slipped the soap down her back she sat upright, leaning forward and hugging her knees. He cleaned her quietly with a gentle touch and a little quirk of his lips.

“I should like to join you, but I’m sure you’ll tell me I’m not up for it.”

She lifted a brow. “Join me.”

He wore only trousers, and they were easy to shuck off. Then he unwrapped his bandage and stepped into the tub behind her. He cradled her close on his uninjured side and rested his chin on top of her head. Against her back, his heart beat a steady, regular rhythm. She wanted to press her ear against his chest and listen to it all day long.

But she picked up the soap and began to clean his shoulder—soap, rinse, soap, rinse, over and over again, and he didn’t hiss even once.

But he did eventually take the soap from her hand. “It’s clean, lass. You’ve done well.”

She bit her bottom lip, nodded, and he turned her around, nestled her close against him, and slid the soap across her skin—above and under the water—across his as well, with a heavy, satisfied sigh. His injured arm he left still in the bath, slightly curved around her middle. As he poured water over her shoulders and neck, washing away the soap, he kissed her just beneath her ear.

“Forgive me for worrying you.”

“I forgive you.” For more than almost dying. They were talking about more than just the bullet and the blood.

“Are you sure?” He seemed to understand. Beneath the water, he ran his fingertips up and down her belly, from just under her breasts to the top of the curls between her legs.

“Yes.” The admission part moan.

And enough of an encouragement for him to delve deeper as he nibbled on her earlobe.

“Don’t,” she said. “You’re still⁠—”