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“Yes, please,” she said. “And a bath.”
Bronwyn’s body itched beneath the unwashed, filthy clothes. It had only been a day and a night, but so much had happened. A blush warmed her face as she recalled using Thornbury’s handkerchief and the anger over the loss of her virginity that had been eclipsed by her supposed treachery. Was being in possession of confidential—possibly filched—reports worse than safeguarding one’s chastity?
If a tree fell in the forest and no one was there to hear it, did it make a sound? From her own reading, the philosopher George Berkeley seemed to think there wouldn’t be if there were no means for listening. So by default, wouldn’t virginity be the same?
Then again, hers hadn’t gone quietly. It had left in a carnal symphony of indelicate moans. Bronwyn burst into soft laughter, earning herself an odd look from Cora who was busy getting the bath prepared in the adjacent chamber. Dear God, she was losing her mind. No one knew besides her and the duke, and he wouldn’t be going around proclaiming that anytime soon. He probably couldn’t wait to wash his hands of her and move on.
“Did Rawley say anything, Cora?” she asked.
“I haven’t seen him, my lady.”
Bronwyn blinked. Where was he? Though that was a small mercy, at least. She didn’t know if she could take Rawley’s disappointment as well. She let out an aggravated huff. What did Thornbury have to be so disappointed about anyhow?
If he had been in her position with a way to stop an important man from being assassinated, he would have done the same thing. She’d bet if Lady Lisbeth were the operative, he would not have had a single issue with that. He’d probably praise her…and then reward her with his masterful prowess in bed. Jealousy warmed up in Bronwyn’s belly like a horde of angry bees.
Oh, stop. The duke doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the pickle you’re in and how to get out of it.
A silent housemaid brought in a tea cart, poured the steaming tea, and left as quietly as she’d come in, a red tinge on her cheeks as though she was uncomfortable or frightened…or given strict orders not to make eye contact or say a word. That was outside of enough. She was a lady! Bronwyn stiffened. Obviously, the maid was under instructions not to talk to the prisoner.
In fact, her nemesis was probably standing guard outside her stateroom door and glaring at anyone who came too close. Her stomach growled at the delicious scent. Mutinously, she sipped the tea and munched on the delicate sandwiches beside the teapot. At least he wasn’t trying to punish her with starvation. She would need her strength. For what, she didn’t know.
Cora gave an approving nod at the empty tray. “The bath is ready, my lady.”
Bronwyn stood and nearly ran into the antechamber. Stripping out of the grimy clothes, she almost wanted to instruct Cora to get rid of them, but they were the only suit of men’s clothing she’d packed. “Will you see that these are laundered, please, Cora? Without that meddlesome duke knowing, if possible?”
“Yes, my lady. I’ll go now while he’s with Lady Lisbeth.”
Bronwyn bit her lip hard, unwelcome images arising of the two of them lying in flagrante delicto in his former countess’s room, his beautiful lean body, laced with its network of scars and sinewy muscles, intertwined with hers.
Stop thinking about him. He’s not thinking about you.
Scowling, Bronwyn stepped into the steaming bath and winced at the ache in her muscles as she slipped under the cinnamon-and-apple-scented water. The singular scent of her soap brought a comfort she hadn’t realized she’d needed. Sighing with relief, she washed and rinsed her hair, and then leaned back for a moment. Heavens, she was sore. Sore in her back, her neck, her legs… She froze. Between them as well. Bronwyn flushed, a hand wandering down to cup her mound.
It had been less than a day and perhaps such soreness was to be expected. She was untried and her lover hadn’t been under-endowed. Nor had he been docile. No, his strokes had been hard and demanding, working her body to an explosive release. Bronwyn could feel the memory of his palm against her spine, forcing her lower half to arch toward him more fully and then moving to draw her hip to him. Beneath her hands, the aching flesh tingled.
Goodness,whywas she obsessing about the man or the act? It was to be expected, she supposed. He’d been her first. She was bound to associate some deep-seated, useless feelings with him. Those would fade in time, and once she found another lover to replace him, none of it would matter.
You don’t want any other.
The duke had been her fantasy lover for so long that imagining someone else in his place was impossible. And now he wanted to arrest her. She was lucky he hadn’t thrown her in the brig. Bronwyn let out a hard sigh. Did her brother’s fancy liner evenhavea brig? Given the caliber of its few passengers, no one would ever dare put a toe out of line. Though most ships had a place where misbehaving crew or travelers could be kept. She was certain of that. If Thornbury had put her in such a place, she would have demanded that he lock himself in there with her like the gothic heroines did in her racy novels.Naked.
Sighing at her foolishness, Bronwyn smiled. A man like Thornbury would likely be immune to female seduction, though he hadn’t resisted when she’d dropped to her knees like a practiced lover.Thatthought filled her with gratification. His desire hadn’t been fake in the least. Nor had hers. She skipped her fingers up her ribs on each side, leaving goose bumps. Her breasts begged for stimulation.Shouldshe touch them? No one was here.
Her body prickled from the coarse direction of her thoughts, her nipples still obscenely tight. Bronwyn’s eyes fluttered closed. The pads of her fingertips brushed over the taut peaks, and a ragged pant hissed out of her. Gracious, she had never been so sensitive. Her thumbs and forefingers pinched in tandem, the sound of the water sloshing against the sides explicit when she arched upward, a needy sigh bursting past her lips.
“Want me to come back?” a low voice growled.
Bronwyn nearly jackknifed out of the tub, her hands falling guiltily to her sides as she sank back into the water, though it hid nothing. “You need a bloody bell.”
“I knocked. Twice.” Leaning against the doorjamb, his hands in his pockets, Thornbury looked clean and put together in a fresh suit of clothes. He’d bathed and shaved as well, the angular planes of his face no longer softened by bronze stubble.
Apart from the faintest of flushes against those high cheekbones, he didn’t look in the least bit affected by her impromptu performance. It irked. Here she was fantasizing about him, and he had probably put her from his mind like yesterday’s leftovers. She wanted to cover herself and scream at him to leave. This was herprivatebath! But a more perverse part of her wanted to make him react. Wanted to deconstruct that careful expression of cool boredom.
“What do you want?” she asked, meeting his unreadable eyes as she reached for the washcloth on the side of the tub and began to wash her already clean body in leisurely circles.
Those hawklike eyes flared, but he didn’t move, ever in complete control. “We need to talk.”
“And that couldn’t wait?”
