Page 70 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you.”
“I didn’t want you to worry. There was the ball.” He shook his head. “You didn’t need to see this.”
“You didn’t need to go alone.” She touched his hair, his face. She could see the effect the night had on him in the strain in his face, the weariness in his eyes. Gingerly, she lifted his injured hand, realizing he’d wrapped his neckcloth around it. “What happened here?”
“I tore it, lifting metal. A man was trapped beneath what remained of a car. We got him out, but there was so much blood. I don’t know if he’ll be all right. His wife was crying, just standing there crying. Her dress was torn. I gave her my jacket.”
He was rambling. He never rambled. It frightened her to see him like this. Leaning up, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m going to have the servants prepare you a warm bath.”
“It’s too late.”
“No, you’re trembling. I think a bath will help.”
He nodded. “All right then.”
“Just wait here until I have everything ready.”
Claire had been right. He needed this. His aching, bruised body soaking in the steaming water. The tumbler of whiskey that she’d filled three times already. Her hands slowly, methodically washing the grime from his body.
He knew the horrific scenes would haunt him for as long as he lived. He couldn’t imagine that a battlefield could look much worse. When it was all over, when there was nothing left for him to do, when he could finally leave, the only place he’d wanted to be was here—with her.
That terrified him more than anything. That he’d needed to be with her. He knew no other woman would console him as she did. No other woman would care for him as she did. No other woman could reach below the surface of him like she could.
Her hands gently massaged the lather through his hair and scalp. It felt wonderful. She didn’t pressure him to talk. She didn’t ask questions. She was simply there. It was more than enough.
“Close your eyes,” she said, and she poured warm water over his head—again and again until the soap was gone. When she was finished, she moved around beside him, took a cloth, and began to tenderly wash his face. Earlier, she cleaned the gash on his hand and wrapped linen around it, with orders to keep it out of the water.
He thought he’d never smile again, but he did when he saw the wet spots on her gown, one in particular that made the shadow of her turgid nipple very visible. He flicked a finger over it. “Your nightgown is getting wet. You should take it off.”
Cradling his cheek, she forced him to look at her. “I need more between us than just … bedding.”
He blinked in confusion. What was she talking about? He felt as though his mind were swimming through thick pudding. His thoughts jumped around, never seemed to be sharp enough to grab onto conversation. Her words made little sense. No woman had ever wanted more from him than a good romp between the sheets. “I thought you enjoyed it.”
“I do. It’s wonderful.” She dipped the cloth in the water and began scrubbing his chest. “But I want so much more. When your dog is dying, I want you to come to me, tell me, let me share the sorrow with you. When you have bad news, I want to know so I can share the worry or can help you find a way to make it all better. You don’t have to do everything alone, Westcliffe. It’s why I’m here. Not only to be beneath you, but to be beside you.”
He cupped her face. “Claire, no woman has ever meant more to me than you. But you ask too much.”
“You don’t have to do it all tomorrow. Just know that I will never, ever betray you again. Whatever you tell me, whatever you share with me, it will be safe with me. I want to be here for you, Westcliffe.”
“You want to give me what I need?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He took her hand, carried it beneath the water, and used it to cover his rigid shaft. “This is what I need. Right now. I need you to stop talk—”
She rose, grabbed the hem of her nightgown, and lifted it over her head, revealing her slender, glorious body, inch by marvelous inch. He’d seen her naked before, but tonight it was a reaffirmation of the beauty of the human form—not mutilated or torn or battered. It was perfection.
Standing there, she unbraided her hair, then bent forward and brushed it through with her fingers before tossing it back. He couldn’t believe how provocative so simple an action was. He started to get out of the tub, to take her to his bed if he could make it that far. Lifting a leg, she pressed her toes against his chest and pushed him back down.
She slid her foot down to his hip and slipped it into the water. Gracefully, she brought the other foot to rest in the tub. Straddling him, she lowered herself, enveloping him in a cocoon of molten heat. Wrapping his arms around her, burying his face against her breasts, he came fast and hard, with an intensity that nearly caused him to black out. For that brief moment, the horrors he’d seen had ceased to exist.
All that existed were the two of them.
She was stroking his back, combing her fingers through his hair, whispering that all would be all right, that she loved him. He couldn’t repeat the words, couldn’t allow himself to become that vulnerable to hurt, but he held her close for the longest time.
When the water had gone lukewarm, he rolled her over and washed her while she washed him. After they dried off, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
Claire hadn’t meant to tell him she loved him, but the words had slipped out of their own accord. Strange to think that when she’d married him, she’d feared the physical side of their relationship—and to realize now that quite possibly he feared the emotional. He used his body to communicate, much more than words.
