A very thick silence followed.
“Aye, I do,” she sighed, the words small enough to shame her.
Connor crossed the space with his gaze trained on the floor. He stopped behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through the thin air and her loosened gown. He kept his hands on the back of her neck where the laces began and set to undo the knot.
“I have had me hands on more of ye than yer sleeve, wife,” he said.
Heat rose in her cheeks again.
His fingers stilled. “But I willnae look where ye daenae wish me to.”
“I am sorry, is that meant to reassure me?”
“Aye.”
“Well, it doesnae.”
A low chuckle escaped his lips. “Just hold still.”
A laugh tried to escape her. She swallowed it because laughter might loosen the other things she was holding shut.
Soon enough, the knot gave, and Connor stepped back at once. Violet worked the gown down, keeping the loosened fabric clutched to her chest until she could reach for the linen. Connor handed it to her without looking. She wrapped it around herself and moved toward the tub.
The first step was fine, but the second was not. Her knees buckled, and Connor caught her by the elbow before she could hit the side of the tub.
“Ye are fine, huh?”
“Keep quiet.”
His grip stayed firm until she grew steady. His eyes remained on her face, then shifted to the wall when the linen slipped near her shoulder.
Soon, Violet lowered herself into the tub, and cold water closed around her legs, then her hips, then her waist, stealing her breath in one sharp gasp.
Connor’s hand moved toward her shoulder, paused, then rested on the rim of the tub. “Breathe.”
She glared at him, and he only shrugged in apology.
She had no time to caution him as the water bit into her skin. Her teeth clicked once before she could stop them. After several breaths, the worst of the heat left her face, and the dizziness ebbed enough that the table, fireplace, and door remained where they belonged.
Connor went to grab the tea and brought it to her. “Drink.”
She took the cup with both hands. Her fingers trembled against the porcelain.
“I hate bitter drinks,” she muttered.
“I suspected as much.”
“Is that why ye seem pleased to torture me?”
Another low chuckle escaped his lips. “If this is torture, ye planned it poorly by asking for it.”
The smell reached her before the first swallow. Violet closed her eyes and drank. Bitter heat struck the back of her tongue, and her hand tightened around the cup. Hannah’s voice echoed in her mind.
“One more sip, little one.”
Suddenly, the dam broke. She could remember the damp cloth on her forehead and linen sticking to her fevered skin. She could even hear the low murmur of Hannah outside the sickroom door, speaking gently because being gentle was all they had left. The memory ended with Hannah’s hand under the cup when Violet had been too weak to hold it by herself.
Violet lowered the cup before she dropped it.
