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She walked to the center of the cabin and stood waiting. Someone had attended to the cabin. Scargill, most likely. The lamps were lit against the dim late afternoon light, the bed was neatly spread, its bright blue cover smoothed. Her tattered gown was gone. She glanced at the clock atop the earl’s desk and saw that it was nearly five o’clock. Without wishing to, she pictured the dining room at Hemphill Hall, festively decorated for the wedding dinner. There would be no garlands and white streamers; there would be only the black somberness of tragedy. Edward, I don’t know if I can bear it. And there would be much more to bear, she knew. She had no doubt that he would rape her again, and she sagged where she stood.
The cabin door opened, and the earl entered, followed by two hefty sailors, each carrying buckets of steaming water. Cassie moved away, watching silently as the copper tub was filled. She heard the earl order the sailors to bring more water and leave it outside the door. He turned his eyes upon her, studying her.
“Your bath awaits. Because I am a gentleman, I shall let you go first. There is lavender-scented soap for your hair, your favorite.”
It did not occur to her to question his knowledge of her soap, for she was frantically searching for a screen to keep her hidden from his view. Always, at home, Dolly had placed a screen in front of her tub.
“Come, Cassandra, before the water cools. Since I am to follow you, I have no wish for a cold bath.” He saw her strained embarrassment at the thought of stripping naked in front of him and cursed the violent storm that had taken him from her side early in the morning. She had had a day to steel herself against him.
“I would like a screen.”
“There is none,” he said crisply. “I shall keep my back to you.” At least for the moment, Cassandra, he amended silently to himself.
Cassie walked slowly to the tub and unwound the towel from her head. She made no move to pull off her dressing gown until he turned away and poured himself a glass of wine.
The earl heard the gentle splash of water and turned to see her, chin high in the water, her wet hair fanning about her like a golden cloud.
He downed the remainder of his wine,
stretched loudly, and stripped off his own damp clothing. She lowered her head as he strode, naked, to the armoire, and shrugged into his own black velvet dressing gown. The wine relaxed him, and he eased into the large leather chair at his desk. It had been a damnably long and fatiguing day, a wasted day. He watched her from beneath closed lids as she clumsily tried to lather her hair. It was likely, he thought, a smile upon his lips, that this was one task she rarely performed by herself. Likely too that her arms ached from her exertion at the helm. Perhaps tonight, he thought, he could make her respond to him. He felt his loins tighten, picturing her naked in his arms. He rose and walked to her.
“Since I have deprived you of your maid, the least I can do is offer my services.” He picked up a hank of wet hair.
She jerked away and winced, for he did not release her hair. She felt her body tense with fear. “Can you not even keep a simple promise, my lord? You did say you would keep your back turned.”
“For God’s sake, Cassandra, I merely wish to help you. You need not fear me, you know. I assure you that when I wish to make love with you, you will know it.”
“I do not wish your help and I am not afraid of you.”
He grinned down at her. “Such a liar you are, my dear. What a mane of hair—you’ve more than my stallion, Cicero.”
“I don’t give a damn about your wretched horse.”
“I don’t propose to argue with you further. Hush, and accept my help.”
She ground her teeth and bowed her head. As he vigorously lathered her hair, she dropped her hands and furtively covered her breasts.
“Would you like me to scrub the rest of you?”
“No. And you may remove yourself, my lord, so I can rinse my hair.”
He returned to his chair, sat down, and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be lulled by the gentle rocking of the yacht. When he opened them, she was sitting on the edge of the bed in her dressing gown, toweling her hair. He rose and stretched.
“Prudish modesty really doesn’t become you, Cassandra,” he said as he stripped off the dressing gown. He was amused when her eyes, despite herself, fell to his belly, and he felt himself respond to her gaze.
“There is nothing like a hot bath or a lady’s eyes to revive one,” he said as he eased himself into the tub.
Cassie did her best to ignore him, but his booming baritone voice soon filled the cabin. He sang a lusty sea chanty, and she felt her cheeks flush red at the vivid image of the serving maid lifting her skirt for the amorous captain.
“I would that you be quiet.”
He laughed and stepped from the tub, huge and dark and dripping wet. “Would you care to hand me a towel?”
“Fetch it yourself, my lord.”
“Would you care for some more wine, Cassandra?”
Her hair swirled softly against her cheek as she shook her head.
