Page 22 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
“That you would prefer memories of fun over work?No.”
Plopping down onto the uncomfortable chair, she placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Am I not a satisfactory servant then? Why keep me on?”
“We’ll discuss all this later. I need to get to the club, and the journey there begins with a bath, which you failed to prepare. I’ll assist so it gets done quickly.”
He heated water, easily carted it upstairs, quickly dumped it into the tub, all the while insisting that she follow him and observe. As though she hadn’t the wherewithal to comprehend how one went about filling a copper vessel. She considered informing him of such, but she held her tongue because, quite honestly, she had no desire whatsoever to carry and pour. Besides, she rather liked walking behind him and watching the play of his muscles over his back and shoulders as he occasionally shifted the weight of the buckets. Still, she had no desire to perform the same service. Whatever had possessed her to seek this occupation?
She couldn’t have had a choice because there was absolutely nothing about it that appealed. She could read and write. She could tutor. She could hire herself out to write letters. She should have been able to find something better.
“Why would I choose a life of servitude?” she asked as they journeyed up the stairs for the third time.
“You didn’t have a choice.”
Just as she’d surmised. “Why? Was I poor? Never mind. Of course I was. Based on the smattering and quality of my belongings I’m still poor. Practically destitute.”
“You have a roof over your head.” He turned into the bathing room, set down one bucket, and upended the other. Steam rose up. Apparently he enjoyed his bath several shades past warm. “That’s more than many have.”
“What is my salary?”
“Twelve pounds,” he said distractedly, setting down one bucket, picking up the other to add its contents to the nearly full bath.
“A day?”
Laughing darkly, he turned to her. “Why am I not surprised you overvalue your worth? An annum.”
The bucket clanked on the tile as though to punctuate his answer. Then in a quick smooth movement that stole her breath, he dragged his shirt over his head, revealing the broad expanse of chest with the narrow sprinkling of hair that she’d caught sight of earlier.
Spinning around, she headed for the threshold. “I’ll leave you to your bath.”
“Not so fast, Phee.”
She paused, the words delivered in a tone that would brook no argument. And waited. Waited. Not breathing. Not certain her heart even beat. She heard the rasp of more cloth being discarded and her body responded with alertness, like a deer spying the hunter, frozen, yet ready to dart quickly away without further thought if needed.
“You wash my back,” he said.
She heard the distinct sound of water being disturbed, lapping against copper.
“You can’t be serious.” Her voice sounded tiny, uncertain, and it infuriated her because she recognized the tinny thread of fear. It had squeaked out before, in another place, another moment, and she had learned to hold it in check, to not reveal her terror.
“I can’t reach it myself,” he said. “Do close the door to keep the warmth in the room. I don’t wish to become chilled.”
She considered closing it with herself on the other side of it. But something inside her would not allow her to retreat. Somewhere, somehow she had learned that retreat equaled defeat. As long as she wasn’t defeated, she could carry on. She could survive.
Where were these thoughts coming from? But the knowledge was clear. It left no room for doubt. Lessons learned, but not in a classroom.
“Phee? Come along now. Don’t be shy of a sudden.”
Had he taught her the lessons? Should she conk him over the head and run for her life?
No, just as last night she hadn’t feared him upon awakening, so she didn’t fear him now. He was not a danger, and where was the harm in simply scrubbing his back?
Turning on her heel, she came up short at the gorgeous sight, the mixture of colors that greeted her. She’d have never imagined something so remarkable.
“Is that dragon painted on your back?”
Chapter 8
Inwardly Drake cursed. A flaw to the plan that he’d not considered. He never shared his back with anyone—not because he was ashamed of it, but because the dragon was private, personal. He owned it. It was part of him.
