Page 93 of The Scottish Bride
“My wee commander,” he murmured. “Will you join me there?”
“Not for this. Besides, I bathed earlier, and that tub is not very big. But it will be easier to tend your wound if you are in there.” She pulled at his shirt.
“I can manage,” he said, teeth gritted. With one arm, he stripped off the linen shirt, and Tamsin helped ease it off, sucking in a breath when she saw the whole wound. He stood in trews and bare torso, skin gleaming in the yellow light of the tallow candles, the broken shaft an alarming sight. She reached for the waist of his trews.
“I will do it,” he said, half turning away as he undid the cord that snugged the waist, shrugged the leggings down to pool on the floor, then stepped free.
She caught her breath, could not help it, seeing the full beauty of his body. His legs were long, lean, back and buttocks powerful, body taut with muscle. His skin gleamed in candlelight. A few scars revealed old wounds well-healed. An arrow puncture, a long, sealed gash, a puckered divot in his side. He had been through much. She frowned. But this wound would heal too, she told herself in relief.
“Into the tub,” she ordered briskly. With a soft chuckle, he stepped in.
Though his body, his nudity, the promise and intimacy of it, quickened her breath, the sight of the wound pushed all else from her mind. He sank down, knees up, the barrel-like tub a snug fit for a tall man. His shoulders and arms were burly and well-developed, his chest matted with dark hair, dark as the beard that shadowed his jaw and cheeks, dark as the glossy chestnut sweep of hair that swung over his brow. Sluicing handfuls of water over his hair and face, he looked at her.
“Still warm,” he said. “Feels good.”
“Aye.” She handed him a cup from the supper tray, and he dumped more water over his head. “What should I do now?”
“Take it out.” He braced his arms along the tub. “Pull. Carefully,” he added.
“It does not look too deep. The arrowhead is not fully under the muscle, I think.”
“Good. Use a damp cloth, press against the wound, and pull. Wait! Is there wine or something stronger here?”
She rose and went to the supper tray, which held a jug of ale, and one of wine. “Will a dark wine do?”
“Aye. Pour some over the wound. And give me a bit, do, love.”
She filled a cup and handed it to him. Then she took a linen towel and yanked hard to rip through and create strips. Dipping one cloth into the water, she gently bathed his shoulder and peered closely at the wound.
“Bend forward a wee bit. Just there,” she murmured. Pressing the wadded cloth to his shoulder, just where muscle wrapped under his arm, she grasped the stub of the shaft in her other hand and pulled hard.
Liam hissed in a breath. The compact point slid out, leaving a small hole that bled freely. She poured a dose of wine over it from the jug, and Liam hissed again. Quickly she pressed the damp cloth against it.
As she held the wad in place, she rested her brow lightly on his arm. He sat with his head forward, silent. Then he lifted a hand out of the water and touched her hair. They sat curled together, Tamsin pressing against the wound.
“Lass,” he whispered after a while, “thank you.”
“Wine,” she whispered, handing him the jug this time. With a rueful laugh, he drank, throat shifting with long swallows, and gave it back.
“Take some yourself.” His voice was hoarse. She drank, set the jug aside.
“I must bandage the wound, but it should be dry first.”
“Let me bathe, then I will get out.” Taking the gooey ball of soap, he rubbed it over his chest, torso, down under the water, washing, rinsing. After he lathered soap in his hair, she took the cup to pour a waterfall over his head as if he were a boy, not a brawny, gleaming, powerful man tucked in a too-small tub.
Clean, dripping, he looked at her, eyes sparkling, the candlelight turning pale blue to jewel-like sapphire. He smiled. “The water is getting cold.”
“You should get out.”
“I should.” He leaned toward her, his voice gruff, honeyed.
“You should,” she whispered, leaning too.
His hand came out of the water to delicately tilt her chin up before he kissed her. The touch of his lips was heated, his mouth wet, lips deliciously tender, and the heavy liquid feeling that sank through her so suddenly made her gasp. She curved her fingers around his bristled jaw, her other hand keeping the folded cloth tight against his wound, and she leaned in for another kiss. Raising an arm to pull her closer, he slid his fingers through her hair, kissing her, and she opened her mouth to him, tasting him, letting him taste her, and the tang of the wine shared between them.
“I want to pull you into this water,” he growled, “but the tub is too small.”
“Then get out, sirrah,” she murmured, “and we can find another space to share.”
