Page 28 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
He swallowed, his throat shifting beneath the band. "Your bathwater is getting cold."
"Then—help me bathe first."
His chest swelled against mine with his intake of breath. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
I stepped away, carefully inching the tunic over my head without stretching my back too much. I let the shirt fall at my feet, and I stood bare before him. I had always longed to reveal myself to a man, to be completely naked before admiring eyes, to share the beauty of my form, that no one else ever got to see.
And this was my chance.
Eamon said, "Oh god." He turned away and gripped the back of the chair he'd placed beside the tub.
"As a physician, you should be accustomed to human bodies," I said primly, using his rigid arm to steady myself as I stepped into the tub.
"This is different, and you know it." He looked at me, his cheekbones painted scarlet with embarrassment, his eyes glimmering with desire he was clearly struggling to repress.
"Am I the first woman you've seen naked?"
"Other than cadavers—yes. Patients only reveal the parts that require my attention, and it is a different scenario entirely—it doesn't affect me—not like this."
A grin teased my mouth, but I resisted it, for his sake. He did not need me gloating over his embarrassment. He was like an injured dog, all sorrow and soft brown eyes, but willing to bite if he sensed a threat. I had to be careful with him, to gently coax him out of his isolation. Honesty, it seemed, was the way to his heart. I must earn his entire trust, as he now had mine.
To distract him from his embarrassment, I said, "What will happen to my injury if it gets wet?"
"Um...the wound could soften and reopen. Too much moisture can make a wound inflamed and cause it to ooze. I have a theory that air and water can carry harmful particles into incisions or punctures, and as those particles grow, they disturb the natural healing process. The body becomes feverish and inflamed while trying to push out the invading entities."
While he spoke, I picked up the soap and began to wash myself. It was a plain lye variety with no infused lavender or rose petals like my soaps at home; but it would do the job well enough.
"Wash my back, would you?" I handed the soap to Eamon. He cleared his throat and stepped around the tub, sliding the bar across my shoulder blades. Then a wet glide down my spine, with a detour to avoid the wound. A slow, slippery circle across one cheek of my rear. And then the other.
Every nerve ending of my body, every sense I owned, wakened, rapt and exquisitely sensitive. Barely breathing, I stood still, helpless to the slick desire gathering inside me. The small room cradled the warmth of the fire, and the lingering aroma of savory stew mingled with the fragrance of wood smoke. The hot water soothed my aching feet and legs so beautifully that I wanted to immerse myself wholly in it. A big, beautiful man stood behind me, smelling of earth and horse and fresh autumn wind, bathing my body with tender care. No sound but the drip and slosh of the water, and the squelch of the soap in Eamon's hand, and the crack and hiss of the flames in the fireplace.
After skimming the backs of my thighs with the soap, Eamon collected my limp hand and tucked the bar into it. "I think you can do the other bits yourself."
He scooped water into his palm and carefully rinsed the soapy paths he had traced across my skin.
When he was done, I tossed my hair forward, letting it hang in front of my face. Eamon helped me lather and rinse it while he spoke of wounds, and pustules, and sepsis, and rot. Then he told me of a burn victim who had been treated by the surgeon to whom he was apprenticed. He explained, in horrific detail, how they used maggots to gently clean the dead flesh away so the healthy tissues could recover.
My desire definitely waned during his lecture. Perhaps that was his intention—though whether he was doing it for my benefit or for his was another question.
Finally I straightened, twisting water from my hair. "Do you speak like this to other civilized women?"
"I did, once." He winced. "I tried courting a young woman when I was eighteen. It did not go well."
"Fortunately for you, I do not mind indelicate speech. In fact I could do with more of it—only not about wounds this time, I beg you."
He hesitated, looking down at his hands. "There is not much more to tell, anyway. My master finally told me I would never be a good surgeon. I do not have the slender fingers for it, you see."
"Nonsense. You have done much good with those hands," I told him. "And I'll wager you could put them to all kinds of delightful uses."
His gaze snapped to mine, and I saw the heat of my own desire reflected in his dark eyes.
"Help me out of the tub," I whispered.
He gave me his hand, and I stepped out, nearly into his arms.
"I am feeling a little weak and dizzy," I said. "Will you dry me off?"
