Page 71 of Souvenir Heart

Marguerite de Rouvroy would not be a problem.

He was in control. With a shake of his head, which sent more water sloshing over his shoes, he stepped forward to fill the tub with water, his eyes fixed on the path of light created by Andre’s lantern.

And froze.

Captured in the lantern glow, like some cursed moon maiden, was Marguerite de Rouvroy. Naked. Kneeling over a basin on the floor, waves of hair spilling into the water. He glimpsed the elegant curve of her neck, her shoulders.

She let out a cry of horror.

Marcus forced his eyes up and hissed, “Put the damn light down.”.

It was the wrong instruction. At the same time Andre lowered the lantern, Marguerite sat up. The light illuminated the curves of her breasts and belly, making the droplets of water streaming down them glitter like strings of diamonds.

Jesus wept. Marcus almost did.

How had he ever imagined Heaven was ignoring him? He was clearly the butt of some vast celestial joke.

“My deepest apologies my lady,” Andre said, blessedly lifting the lantern, as Marguerite scrambled to cover herself. He began in English then quickly corrected himself, continuing in French. “We…” Glancing over his shoulder at Marcus, he quickly amended. “I. I thought you’d still be sleeping. You were so deep in slumber when Marcus carried you in. Didn’t want to disturb. But you were so insistent about wanting to wash…”

He turned his back to her, gesturing at the washtub, the cans of water in Marcus’s hands.

Setting them down with a watery thunk, Marcus unslung a towel from his shoulder, elbowed past Andre, and draped it over Marguerite’s shoulders.

She flushed and wrapped herself in it with shaking hands. Then she rose, transforming from a startled Boucher nymph to Botticelli’s Venus.

Marcus silently cursed his near perfect ability to recall images after the briefest glance. He opened his mouth to demand just what the hell she thought she was doing, then snapped it shut. Because it was perfectly obvious.

As if reading his mind, Marguerite lifted her chin and said in a tone that was equal parts defiance and desperation, “I had to be rid of the smell.”

Her words were like a punch to the gut.

He knew how it felt to come through unbelievable horrors. Understood all too well the feverish need to scrub away the memories, knowing they would be impossible to erase, but still being desperate to try.

He wanted to gather her up in his arms and hold her close. To whisper against the waves of her dark hair that she had made it through the worst, and that everything was going to be all right.

But it wasn’t his place. She wasn’t his woman. And he wasn’t a man to make false assurances.

He nodded at the tangle of clothes on the floor behind her. “Would you like me to take those out of here? You’ll find a fresh change of clothes in those trunks and boxes.” He gestured towards several pieces of luggage Elizabeth Harcrest had left behind and which he and Andre had brought up to the room while Marguerite was sleeping.

“Yes, please.” Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment, but the relief in her voice was almost tangible. “It would be so lovely to bathe properly. M’sieur Saint-Just, if you would bring the washtub in.”

“It’s Scott, actually,” Andre said, still not turning around. He picked up the tub, walked several steps backwards, past Marcus, and set it down again.

“Thank you, M’sieur Scott.” She frowned at the nearly empty dish of soap on the floor and said tentatively, “You don’t, perchance, have more soap?”

Andre pulled a handkerchief-wrapped square from his pocket and awkwardly handed it behind him.

“Oh.” She took it from him, directing a smile at Andre that even though the man couldn’t see it, made Marcus want to growl. Lifting the square to her nose, she closed her eyes and inhaled. “Honeysuckle.”

The bath had been Marcus’s idea. Why hadn’t he thought of bringing her soap?

“The water isn’t heated, but given how hot the weather has been, it ought to be sufficiently refreshing,” Marcus said brusquely, as he bent to retrieve the water cans. Striding forward with them, he managed an admittedly childish, but utterly satisfying splash of Andre’s legs that sent the man leaping backwards. He set one can down, grasped the rim and bottom of the other and poured the contents into the tub. As he lifted the second, Marguerite stopped him, one slim hand on his arm.

“I’ll need that to rinse.”

“It’s heavy—too heavy for you to lift by yourself. And I’m afraid we haven’t any maids to help you with your toilette. It’s too risky to have anyone else in the house,” he added apologetically.

Patting the remaining towels slung over his shoulder, he continued, “We’ve brought more towels for your…” He’d been about to say body. But the word seemed too much of a temptation to look at what he was trying to avoid. Searching for another, safer word, he became aware of the sound of water dripping from her wet tresses onto the floor. “Hair,” he concluded with relief.