Page 47 of The Agent and the Outlaw
“Yes,” I said, trying to recover my bluster. “If it hadn’t been for me, you would’ve been beaten to a pulp by the Iron Fists of Gévaudan. Not only did I stop the assault, but I managed to sweet talk us into a lovely breakfast, as well.”
Antoine’s green eyes darkened. He opened his mouth to says something but seemed to think better of it. He shook his head and began removing his mud-caked clothes, not caring that I was in the room and we were mid-conversation. Well, I was mid-conversation. He was silent, grumpy, and taciturn.
And suddenly shirtless.
Mon dieu.I couldn’t help but stare. I’d caught glimpses of him our first night in the inn but hadn’t had the opportunity to give him a proper look. His unfashionably bronzed skin was crisscrossed with a roadmap of scars that pointed to a life of violence and pain. It made the scar on his face look like the least of his troubles. Soft, dark hair dusted his chest and narrowed to a thin line leading below his belly button—a different kind of road, and one that I found myself wanting to travel the most. He reached up to tug his hair from its customary queue, shaking the loose waves out and running his fingers through it. Muscles that I’d only seen in anatomy books bunched and flexed beneath his skin, unlike any man I’d ever been with. He moved to unbutton the falls of his breeches and paused, catching my eye.
“Perhaps it is ungentlemanly, but I hope you’ll permit me to have the first bath. I’m certain you don’t want our room to reek of blood and filth,” he ground out. I’d almost forgotten that he was still annoyed with me. That fact didn’t seem to have any impact on the inferno of my desire.
“Dieu, Antoine,” I breathed. “You’re beautiful.”Did I mean to say that out loud?
He blushed and turned away from me. “Comtesse, I’m sore and weary of your incessant teasing. If you’ve no wish to tell me about your night last night, so be it, but if you have any humanity in you, you’ll grant me some peace.”
I probably deserved that.
“As you wish,” I replied quietly. “Though you must know that I am not teasing you.”
He said nothing, but some of the stiffness in his back eased. I opened my mouth to speak again, but the innkeeper knocked then, bringing forth a wooden tub and two maids with steaming pitchers of hot water. After several trips back and forth to fill the tub, the bath was ready. I gestured to Antoine to go ahead.
“By all means, your needs are greater than mine,” I said, though I doubted if anyone could presently surpass the strength of my need to touch him.
I went to the window to draw the curtains and offer him some privacy, listening to the sounds of him shucking his breeches and slipping into the water. His exhale of satisfaction made my heart race. My awareness of him in all his sullen, magnificent nudity was quickly becoming more than an inconvenience—it was becoming a torment.
Driven by lust, I turned to face him again. The sight was like a kick to my stomach. Water dripped from his wet locks and soap bubbles glided down his chest. I bit my lip but refused to hold back any longer.
“Of course, you’ll need someone to help you wash your back,” I said.
He quirked a brow at me. “What happened to giving me some peace?”
Embarrassed and angry at his rebuttal, I whirled around and snatched my cloak off the bed.
“Well, go on and wash it yourself then, but don’t come crying to me about doing so with those bruised ribs,” I snapped. My hand was on the doorknob when he called my name.
“Charlotte.”
I stopped but didn’t face him.
“Charlotte,” he said again, softer this time.
I peeked at him from the corner of my eye. He held out the bar of soap and I considered it.Thank God I don’t give a fig about my pride.
“I will be the very personification of peace,” I said. “As quiet as the second half of a sermon, when everyone has dozed off in church.”
I grabbed the soap before he could object and threw my cloak back on the bed. Kneeling behind him, I dipped my hands into the warm water and started to lather the soap across his shoulders. They were warm and smooth, except for the scars, but the muscles beneath felt as hard as iron. I couldn’t resist giving his biceps a little squeeze. He sighed again and smiled, then leaned back against the tub and looked up at me. This close to him, I could see flecks of brown and gold in his green eyes—the colors of sunlight filtering through a lush forest canopy. Under my intense scrutiny, he seemed to become self-conscious again and closed them.
I gently threaded my soapy fingers through his hair, though he’d already gotten the worst of the mud out. My nails scraped lightly along his scalp, and his full lips parted on a moan that made my nipples tighten and my skin prickle with heat. Tiny soap bubbles slipped down the path of his scar, tracing the moon-shaped curve from his brow to his cheek. I gently wiped them away with my fingertip, which seemed to drift to his lips of its own accord. His rough, stubbled cheeks hadn’t seen a razor in some days, but it didn’t make him seem unkempt as it often did on other men. It was almost as if his face needed the roughness of his cheeks and the long scar as armor against beingtoobeautiful.
Too beautiful? Really, Charlotte? You’ve already committed to keeping Antoine in the dark about the truth of your new supernatural state, and here you are practically swooning over him just because he’s ruggedly handsome and brooding. And infuriating. And certainly honorable but misguided in his feckless attempts at chivalry. Could he ever understand the life you lead? Poisoned by a failed marriage, accustomed to wealth and the entitlement of the aristocracy, surviving and thriving in a web of so many untruths and half-truths you’ve almost forgotten what it is to be honest—and that was before you transformed into some previously unknown supernatural abomination. No… I bet if you slice a bit off Antoine de Vaux, he will bleed honor all over you.
My thoughts heralded an onset of melancholy that stilled my hands. Antoine’s eyes opened again.
“Have you finished your explorations, Comtesse?” he asked softly.
The hushed words were like a lover’s caress. He was so unlike any of the men I’d been with, and I finally realized how dangerous my own feelings had become. I wanted him. Not just for the night, but for weeks. Months. Years, even.Merde.There was nothing for it now. I’d simply have to say goodbye to him and leave Gévaudan. As a newly turned werewolf, every minute I stayed in this anti-supernatural town was another minute I was putting everyone in jeopardy, not to mention the danger I found myself in with my feelings for Antoine.
I’ll pack up tonight and leave while Antoine sleeps. Daphne and Étienne are in the next town over. With my new abilities, I fear crossing paths with thebêtesconsiderably less.Perhaps they’ll come for me, and I can dispatch them to protect Antoine.
I pulled away and stood, determined to ignore his suddenly troubled expression.
