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She did not want him to go. She wanted him to stay. More than stay—she wanted him to breach the carved wooden panel that separated them. Even though she was still reclining nude in the bath.

Especially because she was still reclining nude in the bath.

“Don’t go.”

A harsh intake of breath, and then she wondered if he really would go.

He did not.

He came around the screen, huge and powerful, outlined by the gold light of the candles. She stared back at him mutely, her own breath catching in her throat. He knelt at the side of the tub, shirt sleeves rolled up. His arms were as muscled as she’d imagined, dusted with dark hair. The surface of the bathwater rippled when he trailed his fingers through it, skimming her knee, the top of her thigh.

“I’m not an earl’s son—not a single baron in the family tree, even,” he said.

“I know that.”

“I was born north of Inverness. Not a starched cravat to be seen.”

She tilted her head. “I know that too, Bram.”

His hand stilled on her leg, then slipped between her thighs. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

“Bram.”

She was rewarded with a stroke closer to the molten center of her, aching for his touch, which he refused to give fully. His thumb dragged close to the crease at the top of the thigh and hipbone. She gasped, just a little.

“And I’m too old for you.”

She frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not that old.” She had no idea how told he was, and she did not give a fig.

“I’m forty-two.”

“So?”

“So, too old for you.”

“I’m twenty-nine years old. In debutante years, that’s nearly a hundred. I’m older than you.”

His mouth quirked. “Is that so? I never did understand London mathematics.”

“No one does.” She decided to be brave and reached out to touch his arm. The muscles and tendons shifted under her hand. His skin was cold. “You’re still chilled!”

“A wet December night in the Highlands is chilly,” he said. “A ride through Hampshire barely rates.”

“You could warm up in here with me.”

It had taken a considerable bout of courage to say that out loud. Desire threatened to topsy-turvy her good sense. Good riddance to it.

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not fitting in there with you, lass.”

It was not a particularly large tub, but she felt certain they could manage.

“I can’t take you to balls, you know, or Almack’s,” he said abruptly. “Scottish sailors aren’t on the guest list, captains or not.”

“Do you promise?”