Page 33 of The Guardian's Bride
Stripping out of her gray over-gown and the blue gown with its plain lining, Rowena stood in her linen shift, shivering a bit. She dipped a cloth into water that was nicely warm, then used a dab of the soft soap that smelled of roses, ash, and almondoil. Rinsing and drying, she loosened her braid and combed her fingers through the damp, rippling length of her dark hair.
As she pulled the blue gown over her head, not keen to sleep in her shift as she otherwise might, she heard a light knocking. MacDuff opened the door and retreated with a murmured apology.
“Come in,” she said, sliding the gown over her hips, the hem swirling around her bare feet. He entered, closed the door, and stood there looking awkward.
“Did you hear what the guards were saying?” she asked.
“Some.” He watched as she worked fingers through the waves of her hair. “I did not hear much. A patrol, perhaps from Yester. But they do not seem in a hurry. I smell roses,” he said. “You—are glowing.”
“Just the candlelight. And the soap smells of roses.” She blushed. “If you want to wash up, I can wait outside.”
“We cannot risk anyone seeing you. Turn away so I can clean up. Though I fear you have seen all of me already.”
“Notall.” She laughed softly, sat on the bed, and angled away. She heard the rustle of cloth, then splashes as his tall shadow danced over the limewashed wall. From the corner of her eye, she saw that he had stripped to the nude, his back to her, linen toweling wrapped inadequately around him. Candlelight gleamed over his broad form and long back, over smooth rippling muscle, and glinted gold in the mop of brown curling hair that touched his shoulders.
She glanced away, glanced back. Over years of helping injured men, she was accustomed to seeing the male body, though generally not all at once. And she had thought desire numbed, willed all but gone after her brief marriage and the shock of widowhood. In fact, she felt more like a nun than she would have admitted. Yet at the sight of this man, herbody remembered suddenly, warmth spinning through her. She looked away again.
On the wall, MacDuff’s shadow rubbed the cloth over his shoulders, his back, over swaying hips while he hummed under his breath. What she heard surprised her, for it sounded like a monk’s chant. Even softened, his voice was harmonious, deep, and mellow. She breathed in, closed her eyes.
“Och, the feet,” he grumbled, raising one foot, then the other, hopping about.
Rowena glanced over her shoulder. With cupped hands, Aedan MacDuff sluiced water over his hair and beard, then rubbed another cloth vigorously over his head, curls springing and spiraling. He was humming again, low and rich.
He glanced at her then, and she looked away. “Pardon,” he said. “I was so happy to have a wash that I forgot myself.”
“You have a nice voice.”
He sniffed his arm. “I smell like roses. Stay turned away, lass, for decency, aye?”
She heard rustling cloth, then footsteps. Thinking he was done, she turned back as he began to drop his loose linen shirt over the trews drawn up and tied at the waist. His torso was long, lean, muscled, golden in the candle’s glow and arrowed with a dusting of dark hair. Another thrill pulsed through her, warmer now, more insistent.
He poked his head out. “I should rinse the shirt. It does not smell like roses.”
“You could. It should dry by morning.” She thought then of the night to come, the small room, one bed, the two of them, and hours until dawn. Her breath quickened as she looked at his torso, the strength there, the breadth of his shoulders and chest, the hard toned torso, the taut waist—
She had promised to trust him. Now she needed to trust herself. These feelings were not usual to her. There wassomething about him—the humor, his easy manner, and now just the beauty of the man—that pulled her to him, that had her craving to be near him. Those feelings crowded her thoughts in this little room.
He shrugged off the shirt, dunked it, splashed about, then wrung it out. Draping the shirt near the brazier, he turned back. “Do you mind a shirtless man?”
“I am used to such,” she said.
“Ah. The healing work.” Taking up the plaid, he draped it loosely over his shoulders and sat on the low stool, leaning forward, arms on knees, hands clasped. “Tell me this, Rowena Keith. What happened at Soutra? Though that is how you came to Yester where we met again. Luck—and fate,” he added with a curious glance.
Aware he teased her gently, she wrinkled her nose. “Fate,” she said. “Could be, for truly I do not know how all this came about. I was invited to Soutra by a monk I met at Lanercost. I had no maid with me, for she took ill at the last minute. Sir Finley Macnab—our seneschal at Kincraig—escorted me with a friend, Sir Gilchrist Seton. I felt sure I would be safe in a monastery—I always have been. They were to return in a week to bring me back to Kincraig, but Edward’s men came for me before then. I thought perhaps King Edward had summoned me back to Lanercost. But I was taken to Yester.”
He barely moved. “How did they treat you?”
“Well enough. Tied.” She held up her wrists to show the pink marks still there.
“Beg pardon again, Lady Rowena.”
She shook her head. “The ropes helped you get us out of there.”
“Aye. When did you last see Edward?”
“I was there March into April, returned home, and then went to Soutra. And Yester. A knight in Edward’s service met me there. Sir Malise Comyn.”
He swore under his breath. “A busy fellow.”
