Page 21 of Her Runaway Duke
“This might hurt,” McGregor said as Levi lifted his arm and McGregor began to slowly peel the wet fabric off of it. Levi flinched as it tugged at the scar on his shoulder but didn’t voice any of his pain. It was nothing compared to what the pain had been a few months ago.
He was healing slowly – on the outside at least, although he would never be the same again.
McGregor finished helping him undress and held an arm out to assist Levi into the bathtub.
He hated relying on someone else, but his leg was stiff from the cold rain, and he had no desire to injure himself any further.
He sighed as he sank into the bathtub, the warm water welcoming as it washed around him, soothing his sore muscles.
“Ye push yerself awful hard, Your Grace,” his Scottish valet said. They had served together in the war, and he was one of the few people that Levi trusted. McGregor had no family to speak of before joining the war effort and when it was time to leave, Levi had offered him a position at his estate.
When Levi had been injured, McGregor had remained, despite his responsibilities becoming so vastly altered from what he had agreed to. McGregor treated him differently than he had before – with more reservation, perhaps concern at how Levi might react to him – but he had remained loyal.
“I know, McGregor,” he said. “But it feels better than not.”
The valet nodded his head and passed Levi a book before departing, shutting the door behind him. Levi relaxed into the bathtub, holding the book in front of him to read while he soaked. He couldn’t simply sit and bathe without it, for then his mind could wander, which was a most terrifying prospect.
He was making his way through Shakespeare’s works and was currently on King Lear. It was tragic, yes, but he far preferred focusing on fictional tragedies than his own.
Levi stayed within until the water grew cold. McGregor was not far, in the small room adjoining his own, but now that Levi’s muscles had warmed, he would be fine to step out of the bathtub himself. He stood, the water sloshing over his torso, and reached for the towel next to him.
He had just lifted it to dry his face when he heard the turn of the doorknob, and he lowered it, prepared to tell McGregor that he didn’t need his help.
Only, it wasn’t McGregor who stood in the doorway.
It was Lady Siena, eyes wide, mouth open in shock.
Siena had been exploringthe second story in this east wing of the house. Most of the rooms were empty of nothing but old furniture that still bore dust and cobwebs, the rooms clearly unused.
She now understood why her room was described as “the pink room,” for every bedroom was decorated in an entirely different colour, like a house composed of pieces of the rainbow.
She should likely return to the long gallery and finish her inventory of the art pieces there, but it was far more interesting to walk from room to room. Each bedroom held one or two pieces, and these seemed more intimate, as though they were created for various members of a family.
Who had lived here and what would they think of the estate’s current resident?
Siena was lost in thought when she opened the last door of the second-story hallway, which was in the same wing as her bedroom but at the opposite end of the corridor.
She should have taken her time, to determine whether anyone was within.
But when she opened the door and saw the duke, she hadn’t been able to look away.
She should have apologized.
She should have shut the door.
She should have run down the hall and away from the room.
Instead, she stayed still, her eyes drawn to his body.
He stood in the bathtub, water dripping off defined muscles.
Siena's heart raced as she watched the duke dry his face, completely unaware of her presence. The grey light streamingthrough the room's large windows illuminated every detail of his tall, lean form.
His strong shoulders glistened with droplets of water, causing her breath to catch in her throat as she drank in the sight before her, mesmerized by the sheer raw masculinity exuding from this man.
A surge of desire unlike anything she had ever experienced before washed over her, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement.
She couldn't help but take in the scar that didn’t stop at his face. Instead, it ran down his entire left side, from his neck, over his shoulder, down his left torso and left leg. It was red, raw, and puckered, and she winced at how much pain he likely felt from it. Was it the scar of a past battle? If she had to guess, it appeared to be a burn, one he would likely never fully recover from.
