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Rhys ran a hand through his hair, his back still turned to her. “How can you say that?”
Isabel put on a fresh chemise and turned fully toward him. “What exactly are you to blame for?”
Rhys rounded on her. “Everything! None of this would have happened if I had just controlled my temper and not acted like a complete arse this morning! And if I—if I paid more attention to who I hire, perhaps that wouldn’t have happened either.” He said the last an octave lower.
Isabel shook her head. “You were right to be angry with me,” she said quietly.
Rhys approached her and sat her back down on the chair. “I wasn’t. Now let me clean you up to atone for my sins.”
He poured hot water into a basin, hiked up Isabel’s skirts, and proceeded to wash her feet and calves.
Isabel picked up one towel off the floor and started drying her hair. “You were quite rude,” she said with a smile. “I will not deny that.”
Rhys winced.
“But you were right. It was all my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Rhys shook his head. “The truth is… The truth is I blamed myself. I was too angry because… because”—he took a deep breath, for it seemed to be impossible for him to say the words—“this is not the first time something like this had happened.”
Isabel paused. “What happened?”
Rhys grimaced. He lathered his hands with soap and massaged her calves, his full attention concentrated on the task.
Isabel reached down and nudged his chin with her fingers, so he would meet her eyes. “Tell me.”
Rhys swallowed. He rinsed the soap off her legs and dried her with the towels in silence. Then he picked her up and deposited her onto the bed. He covered her with blankets and paced away from her.
He stood with her back to her, his stance rigid as he spoke, “Have you heard a rumor about me?”
Isabel frowned.What is he talking about?
He turned to her, his gaze heated. “The one that says I murdered my wife.”
