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Oh, no. She couldn't allow him to see her this way. She bounded up, frantically snatching at the drying sheet she'd hung on the back of the chair. With lightning-quick movements, she covered herself, making sure her scars were hidden. If she just had a few more seconds to dry herself and reach for her nightrobe ...
She jumped out of the tub, ignoring the water sloshing over the sides and running in rivulets across the bare floor.
Too late! she realized as the door opened and Sam stood in the doorway.
His eyes widened as he took in the sight of his wife standing practically naked in front of him. His lips curved in a surprised smile. "If I'd known I was going to get a welcome like this, I'd have been home a lot sooner," he said, taking a step towards her.
She swallowed thickly. "I ..." She couldn't voice her thoughts. What could she tell him? That this was not a welcome? That she'd planned to be sound asleep before he came back?
He moved closer, and the scent of soap and sunshine filled her nostrils. He'd obviously bathed before he came in, probably in the river.
"Here," he said softly, reaching for the drying cloth, "let me help you."
She backed away, leaving a puddle of water on the floor. "No."
He followed, she retreated, until she felt the cold wall on her bare back. She swallowed thickly at the unbridled need in his eyes. He wanted her, and God help her, she wanted him, too.
She shivered as he reached up and traced the line of her jaw with his callused finger. "You're cold," he said, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her against him. The heat from his body warmed her skin, and his hands on the skin of her naked back burned their imprint into her flesh. His hands moved lower, cupping her buttocks and drawing her closer. Close enough to feel the evidence of his desire. "But I'd be happy to warm you up."
Heat flowed through her. Heat, and want. Want unlike anything she'd ever known. Her knees almost buckled with the intensity of her reaction to him.
"Let's get rid of this," he whispered into her ear as he reached for the drying sheet.
Emma's grip tightened on the fabric. "No ... I can't ..."
"What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
How could she explain? "If you want to ... you know ... I don't mind ..."
He chuckled. "I'm glad to hear it."
"But I can't let you see me ..." she whispered.
"What?"
She lowered her eyes. "I don't want you to look at me."
He took a step back and frowned. "Why the hell not?"
"You know why not.” Because I can't bear to see the revulsion on your face, she wanted to say. Because I'm afraid you'll never want me again if you see ... “I just don't."
"I know you're shy, sweetheart, but you'll never get used to it--"
She shook her head. She'd doubted she'd ever get used to allowing a man to look at her body, even if she'd been perfect. But the way she looked now ...
"Are you still worried about your scars?"
She nodded.
"Hell, Emma. When are you going to believe that I love you and I don't care about a few little scars. It's the woman you are that I love--"
"I know you say that, and I don't doubt you really do believe it --"
"But you don't trust me."
Emma didn't miss the frustration in his voice.
She shook her head, unable to believe that this man, this wonderful, virile man who could probably wed any woman in Charity would want a woman who was less than perfect. How she wished she could believe him.
