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“Will you tell me about it?” she asked. “About being on a ship? The places you’ve seen?”

Even though he could not see her, as she removed her gown, she was aware of every single inch of her skin. Bess had helped her with her laces before leaving them alone. Her ball gown was draped over the second chair, and she laid her chemise over the top of the screen, followed by her stockings. Bram made a noise from the other side, which she could not interpret.

She stood naked, knowing he was just there, just in reach. Knowing what it felt like to have those strong fingers stroke between her legs, the hot pull of his mouth on her neck. It was intoxicating, desperately tempting.

She shivered as she finally stepped into the steaming bathwater. Bess had left a dish of soap, a washcloth, and rose oil for her hair, which must have been very dear to her. Rose oil was something the Nightingale might wear, not Miss Vinegar. Clara decided to use just a drop, not enough to waste, just enough to hint at something that was not proper and prim and nutritional, like water biscuits. A hint of the Nightingale.

“What did you want to know?” he asked, his voice deepening.

“How long were you at sea?” She let a drop of rose oil fall into the water, scenting the steam, her pinkening skin, the small, simple room.

“Years. Since I was a lad working my way up, and then for most of the war.”

The war alone had taken twelve years. “Did you miss London?”

He snorted. “No.”

She had to smile. “Not even a little bit?”

“I missed my sisters and my wee niece, who don’t live in London anymore, thank Christ. And a particular coffee from a small Turkish spot at the very back of Covent Garden. They make it with cinnamon, I think. And other spices.”

“It sounds delicious.” She’d never had cinnamon in the coffee. She made a note to try it as soon as was possible. She did not think the inn would have cinnamon on hand.

She ran the washcloth over herself and contemplated washing her hair, but decided against having to deal with the wet mess of it all the night long.

“Were you at Trafalgar? With Admiral Nelson.”

“Aye.”

“That must have been very exciting.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Is that where you got your scars?”

“Which ones?” he asked drily.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

“They are not well received in fancy drawing rooms.”

It was her turn for a dry tone. “I can assure you that your scars are not off-putting to the ladies.” She’d seen proof of it with the way they watched him, the way they sometimes sighed behind their fans.

All of which she was also guilty of.

“What about the scar on your cheek?”

“Splinters from a cannonball that landed too close. Mostly we harried the privateers hired by the French to bedevil us. Sometimes down to Bermuda and the islands. Sometimes we waited offshore to lend a hand when the army was pushed too far back. Often we were part of the convoys delivering everything from grain to horses. Who do not much like the open sea, by the way.”

“I can imagine not. But I can see you perfectly suited to protect Wellington and his men. I would want you at my back.”

She sank further into the bath and could not help a sigh of pleasure as the warmth released the tension in the muscles and the last of the chill that had seeped into her bones.

Bram shifted in his chair. There was the creak of floorboards as he walked toward her, closer, closer. He paused on the other side of the screen. “Clara?” he asked roughly.

“Yes?”

“Tell me to go.”