Page 56 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
“Gillie, there hasn’t been a proper thing between us since we met. I was in your bed, naked as the day I was born. You cared for me, nursed me, and didn’t take advantage. I want only to return the favor, give you a bit of the care you gave me. Have you ever had anyone wash your back?”
“My mum. She washed me until I was eight. Then I was old enough to do it myself. Odd thing was, the last time she did it, I didn’t know it was the last time. We don’t always know when something is the last time.”
“No, we don’t. The last time my father spoke to me, though, I suspected it was the final time. I was all of fifteen when he placed the watch in my palm and handed it down to me. Although I surmised what his action portended, it still came as a bit of shock when my fears were confirmed.”
“We’ll make Charlie tell us where he fenced it. I know a good many of the thiefs’ pawns around here. Once we know who he sold it to, we’ll be able to get it back or find out where the fence might have pawned it.”
“Right-o, then. We’ll have a chat with him. Meanwhile, your bath, your back?”
She shook her head. If she let him wash her back, she feared she might want him to wash everything. “I can’t.”
He spun around on his backside and shoved himself to his feet. “I’ll be in the other room while you finish up here. Call if you need me.”
Watching him walk out, she knew she should have felt relieved. Instead she cursed herself for being a coward, for not trusting completely—not him specifically, but all men. Some man she didn’t know who’d done wrong by her mother; the man who had done wrong by her mum and planted a babe in her belly, a babe who was now her younger sister, Fancy; the men who might have taken advantage of her if she hadn’t spent the better part of her life going about disguised as a boy. She remembered how odd she felt the first time she put on a skirt, when no seams touched her intimately. She’d opened a tavern because within its walls she wouldn’t have to impress anyone. She could keep her hair short, wear shirts that didn’t hug her body, and skirts without petticoats because someone in want of a drink wasn’t looking for a fancy lady to pour it. He only cared that it was poured.
In spite of her height, in her tavern, she went about barely noticed. And a woman not noticed wasn’t likely to bring an unwanted child into the world.
But even as she had that thought, she knew any child to whom she gave birth would be wanted, regardless of which side of the blanket it came in on. She’d never understood ostracizing those born of sin. It certainly wasn’t their fault.
Although, to be honest, before Thorne, she hadn’t truly understood temptation. If she’d have been able to resist purring while he washed her back, she might have accepted his offer. But she was still quaking from that lurid dream where she’d curled up on his lap and tried to seduce him. Best to get back into some clothes before she found herself traipsing out into the other room and rubbing her body against his as though she were a blasted cat.
Because he’d asked, as she washed up, she noted the bruises on her shin, her thigh, her hip, and elsewhere. Seven total that she could see. A couple of the more tender ones were turning dark and ugly. It had been a while since she’d gotten into a proper scrape. She should have been horrified by her behavior. Instead, she felt quite proud because she was rather certain she’d given as good as she got.
Once she was finished bathing, she climbed out of the tub and dried off. Her head still hurt, a muted throbbing that irritated more than anything. She considered putting on her nightdress and crawling into bed for a few minutes, but her mother would be appalled that she’d wear such a thing when she had company of any sort, much less male. So she decided against wrapping her breasts, and selected a clean shirt and skirt. Leaving her feet bare, she clambered onto the bed.
He must have heard it creaking because he was in the doorway before she’d fully settled in, lying on her side. “You’re not going to sleep.”
“I’m exhausted. Surely it’s near enough to dawn—”
“I’ve not yet heard the lark.”
She released a tired laugh. “You’re not going to hear the lark around here. You’ll hear wagons, wheelbarrows, horses’ hooves, and squeaking wheels. You’ll hear life. Let me sleep for just a few minutes.”
“I can’t. But neither can I read to you as that puts you to sleep. So I’ll just have to keep asking you questions.” He moved to the edge of the bed and sat.
“Can we dim the lamp?” she asked. “The light makes my head hurt worse.”
He extinguished the flame, got up, stirred the fire so it cast a bit more light, but it was far enough away that it didn’t hit her eyes directly. When he returned, he stretched out on the bed beside her. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m not going to touch you. Just trying to ensure I stay awake as well.”
With her back to him, rising up on an elbow, she glanced over at him. Staring at the ceiling with a hand shoved beneath his head, he made her mouth go dry. “At least take off your boots.”
He obliged, his action touching a place deep inside her where she’d shoved aside the notion a gentleman would ever place his shoes beneath her bed. He slowly eased back down as though striving not to jar her and shifted his gaze over to her. “So talk to me.”
“I don’t have much else to say. I’ve already told you about various liquors.”
He grinned. “Ah, yes, I remember that. In spite of the pain and the fog, I wanted to hear what you had to say.”
“That’s about all I know.”
“Tell me about your dreams.”
That she dreamed of crawling into his lap and kissing him senseless? Not bloody likely.
“There must be something you dream about doing that you haven’t yet done,” he added.
She settled back down on the mattress, slipped a hand beneath her cheek, and stared at the dark lamp. Much easier to whisper about dreams when not facing someone directly. “Have you ever been to France?”
“I have. Have you not been?”
