Page 30 of Deception of a Highlander

The boys entered the room again and emptied their large buckets into the tub before dashing out to get more water. Once they had left, Mariel lowered her head and gave him that slanted look that set him on fire. “You intend to stay?”

“I do, but no for the reason that ye think. With no woman to help ye, I dinna want ye by yerself when ye’re injured.”

She tucked her lower lip into her mouth, and her brows knit together. Immediately, Kieran regretted having brought up her lack of a maid and the memories that it undoubtedly procured.

Mariel heaved a deep sigh and lifted her chin with stubborn determination. “I’m perfectly capable of bathing, even in my battered state.” She sauntered toward him. “Unless,” she amended, “you want to help…”

Once more, the boys entered the room to empty their buckets before disappearing for the final time.

Kieran settled back on the bed with his arms folded behind his head and closed his eyes to clear her smoldering look from his mind. “Nay, I’ll be here in case ye need me.”

Keeping his eyes closed was a bad idea. The sound of lacing sliding through the fabric, however, stopped him from opening them. Wool and cotton rustled like a seductive whisper as they slipped from silken flesh. Kieran swallowed thickly and tried to ignore the insistent pulse that beat an erratic thrum in his swollen cock. Did wool always create so much noise as it pooled at a woman’s feet?

Just when he thought he could take no more of the torturous sounds of her undress, the gentle lapping of water against the wooden side of the tub filled the room. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know she was in the perfumed water—naked, slick, and wet.

CHAPTER 13

The water’s intense heat left Mariel’s flesh rosy where the gentle ripples had licked her calves. Spirals of steam curled above the mirrored surface in a silent temptation to sink into its liquid embrace. The neat stitching at her side, however, would not do well underwater. Experience had taught her that much. Her wistful sigh disturbed the lazy ascent of perfumed mist rising around her.

A glance at the bed confirmed Kieran lay in peaceful slumber with his arms crossed behind his head. Regret was a slow-burning flame lodged in the pit of her stomach. Were it not for the gash at her side, this would have been the prime opportunity for seduction. Not that it had gone well in Edinburgh.

Armed with a clean strip of linen, a chunk of soap, and a small bucket, Mariel set to work ridding her body of the ravages of battle. Blood and dirt ran in murky rivulets down her legs and clouded like swirling smoke in the water below her knees. She scrubbed her skin pink but could not remove the filth that embedded itself in the cuticles of her nails and ridges of her fingertips. Nor could she remove the memory of the man’s face whose life she had taken.

Had she not killed him, he would have killed her. She knew that yet somehow, it did not ease his death from her conscience.

Nor could the guilty ache of Jane’s death be so easily removed. Much as Mariel hated the heartlessness of her internal admission, with Jane’s death came the opportunity to devise a different plan.

No longer was Mariel watched. No longer would she be reported on. She cast a sidelong look at where Kieran was stretched out on the bed.

How would he take her confession if she told him?

Her gaze settled on the claymore he’d set aside, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. The blade had been wiped clean of the blood from their recent battle, but the massive sword did not appear any less dangerous.

Her thoughts were thick, muddled by the pain at her side and the exhaustion pulsing in her skull. There had to be another way.

Mariel squeezed her eyes shut against her churning mind and hefted the heavy bucket into her arms. She would think more about it tomorrow when her head was clear and her body rested. For now, she needed to focus on washing her hair, or Kieran would never want her. She raised the bucket overhead, and an unexpected sting knifed through her side.

“Mariel?”

Stars flashed before her eyes, and nausea threatened to consume her. The act of lifting her hands over her body had pulled tight at the freshly stitched wound and left her paralyzed with pain. She gripped the damp wooden edge of the tub for support.

She would not faint.

The bed ropes squeaked against one another. “Lass, do ye need help?”

“No,” she whispered. “No,” she repeated a little stronger. “I…I don’t think I’m going to be able to wash my hair.” Was that a quiver in her voice? She swallowed the knot of helpless frustration.

Silence followed her admission before he finally spoke, his voice terse. “Get dressed. I’ll wash yer hair for ye.”

“What?” Had she heard him correctly?

“Just get dressed,” he snapped.

Mariel patted herself dry gingerly and reached for something to wear. A fresh tear of pain ripped through her side. She gritted her teeth and considered her options. The brown dress was being washed, and all her dresses required a corset. She had no choice but to wear a night rail.

The thin cotton fabric slid over her body like a breath of cool air against skin flushed from the heat of the bath. She turned to find Kieran—in all his hard masculinity—kneeling by the crude tub, waiting for her. His gaze was black, unreadable where it slid down the length of her nightclothes.

He cleared his throat and motioned to the leg he had propped against the edge of the bath. “Lean against me to ease the pain.”