That word again. Care.
What had caused Jack to deny love? The length of his father’s shadow? The sorrow of his mother’s death? His own perception of himself?
Or perhaps a London marquess who adored bustle could never truly love a country lady who cherished tranquillity.
But she would not be downcast.
She would not be bereft or vexed or dependent.
Because she did love Jack Winterbourne. For all that he was.
Gallant, resolute… Caring.
An honest rogue.
Like her beloved moths, he would leave by day, would perish if pinned down, and after all, she always let her moths fly free. Jack Winterbourne was no different.
However, night had fallen.
And he was hers.
“Could you…bathe me, Jack.”
He breathed deep, jaw clenched. “Tamsyn, my intentions are honoura–”
“I do believe I can hardly stand for exhaustion.”
Concern scrunched his brow, and she almost felt guilt for such a lie.
Almost.
Because her intentions were far from honourable.
He bent, lifted her with ease and strode to the bathtub tucked behind an ornate painted screen, sheltered and shadowed.
As though a fragile porcelain ballerina, he let her feet touch the rug and then made to depart.
“I can’t bathe in my chemise, Jack. It’s all salty.” What a fibster she had become.
He twisted back, swallowed, eyes intense. “I am only so strong, Tamsyn Penrose.” And he untucked her small knife that he’d secreted in his waistband. “Cut your shift with this if need be and call if you need anything else. I shall be washing at the bowl and pitcher.”
Drat.
Tamsyn stripped off her chemise, winced at her aching arms and scratched wrists, before settling herself in the tub, the soothing heat and scent of almond soap causing her to groan aloud.
A male curse growled and she peered through the scented vapour and between the gap in the painted panels of Artemis bathing in a woodland, to be presented with…
Jack’s shirt lay upon the dressing table in a puddle of white, breeches riding low on his hips. A muscled back contorted and flexed as he washed his face and neck, water sluicing. A crimson welt from the rope encircled his upper back whilst a raw scrape marked his forearm.
The dressing table mirror allowed her glimpses of his bare chest and if he were to glance up, no doubt he’d encounter her rapt gaze.
But his eyes remained downcast as the wet cloth dragged over his torso, black-as-night hair smattering the front. His hand lowered and she shredded her lip, watching as he dipped the cloth, running it over a firm stomach and lower to–
The cloth disappeared behind a hinge in the screen…
Bad Tamsyn.
And she let her head fall back against the rim of the bath.
