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“I have work to do,” he replied stiffly.
“Such as standing down my men?”
For a moment, his eyes met hers, then he gestured toward the bath. “There are soaps.”
“I see.”
He moved the direction of his pointing finger. “And towels.”
“I see them too.”
He frowned. “See that you use them.”
“I shall do my best.”
“One holds out hope.”
They were growing positively sarcastic with one another. She said in a low voice, “One might be forgiven for thinking you forget whom you serve.”
The bushy eyebrows on his forehead lifted. “I recall quite well, my lady. I serve two masters now, you and the Hound.”
He turned and left the tower.
Tendrils of scented steam wafted up from the surface of the tub, and finally succeeded in drawing her attention off the door. The tub was set beside the hearth, and flickering orange flames burned through the mists, so it looked like a fiery swamp. She eyed the scene with a mixture of longing and deep suspicion. As if the tub itself were up to some mischief.
Aodh had sent it. Mischief enough.
Surely it was unwise to relax even the smallest bit. But Aodh was gone, the sun had set, twilight was evocative, and the evening breezes were so very soft and alluring.
In the end, though, it was the soaps that did her in.
She examined one cake, then reached for it and lifted it to her nose. A wave of weakness went through her. So fragrant. So silky smooth.
Abruptly, she snatched a towel off the top of the pile and turned to the steaming water. Behind her, the pile of towels toppled over.
It was a hardly noticeable event, the towels being so soft, the fall so short. Indeed, she would not have paid attention at all, if there had not been an unexpected thud as it hit the floor.
She stopped and looked over her shoulder.
There, visible at the edge of the towels, poked the tip of a decorated sheath, and the edge of a buckle.
Her sword.
Dickon.
She caught her breath and knelt for it, grabbed the belt and unsheathed her sword with surprising affection; she’d trained with this sword for years. It was as dear a friend as Susanna, and she had not realized how much safer she felt with it close to hand. But as soon as her hand curled around the familiar hilt, she felt better.
Pistols were good, but they were obstinate and fickle and did not always aim well, and if you were not careful, or sometimes even if you were, they were as likely to shoot off your hand as the other man’s head.
But her sword…oh, she’d trained with it, had its hilt specially made to fit her hand, and her bias for beauty, so that it was inlaid with an image of tiny harps and England’s crown, traced with the faintest silver, to bind the two, as they were bound here in Rardove.
A small nub of discomfort knotted in the center of her chest.
She had no plan for the sword, but having it made her feel safer. It was enough.
Laying it along the rim of the tub, she slid her hard boots off and stepped onto the fur pelt Walter had ordered laid. Her toes sank into its plush silky warmth, another luxury of Aodh’s. She unlaced her gown and slipped into the warm, enveloping steam.
Softly scented, the hot water closed around her. The fire crackled beside her. She tipped her head back, and let her eyes close with a deep breath. From the bailey below came the muffled snort of horses and the ring of horseshoes on stone.
