had the past two nights in the privacy of their tent— at night .
"It's only midday. Surely you do not plan to accomplish the bedding right now?"
Had she thought him considerate? He was worse than the goat her sister had called him . . . He was a randy goat with no sense of decorum or modesty. Or . . . or . . . or anything else.
"It is time."
"No . . . no . . . we should wait until to night . You said I could wash, with soap."
"I will wash you." He closed the distance between them before she realized he was moving. "Let me help you with this."
She pulled back, but it was too late. He had her belt undone that fast. The pleats of her plaid simply fell, leaving the Scottish garment hanging over her shoulder like a long blanket. He tugged and it was gone completely, falling to a pool of fabric around her feet.
She turned and leapt for the relative safety of the pool, grateful that unlike her older sister, Abigail had learned to swim. It was deeper than she expected, and warmer than any bath she had ever taken. Her head submerged before her feet hit the bottom of the pool. Water swirled around her from Talorc's entry into the pool as she kicked upward and away from where she had felt him come in.
His hands locked on her waist and she broke the surface right in front of him. He was looking at her quizzically. "Do the English bathe in their clothes, then?"
Chapter 7
"My blouse needed washing." Which was nothing less than the truth.
"It is not the time for laundry; it is time for you to become my wife."
"No . . . I . . ."
He leaned down and brushed a kiss over her wet lips. "Yes."
"But . . ."
"I have waited long enough."
"It has only been two nights."
"I will have you now."
She shook her head.
He nodded.
Just like outside the cave. Only this time, she did not have some puny ravenous wild beast to worry about; she had her new husband's amorous nature.
She leaned back, trying to put distance between them.
"Take off your blouse."
Taking comfort in the fact he had not mentioned her shift, she tugged the now-soaking blouse over her head and tossed it to the side. It really would need a washing tomorrow after that treatment.
He looked down at her and his eyes burned. "Perhaps we should develop a new tradition of washing your shifts on you."
She looked down and immediately tried to cover herself. The thin fabric was completely transparent in the water. "You should not look at me like that."
"I am the only man that should."
"Naturally, no one else should either."
He pulled her toward him in the heated water until their bodies brushed. "Get used to it. I like looking at you."
"It is not decent."
"It is."
"Talorc . . ."
"Come, let us wash your shift." He let go of her waist but immediately slipped one of his arms around her so that he held her just as securely to him. Only he now did so with one hand free.
Backing toward the edge of the pool, he reached behind him with his hand. "Aha."
He held the soap up for her to see.
For a moment Abigail's need for cleanliness overshadowed her shyness and she reached for it.
But he shook his head. "I will play your handmaiden."
The idea was so ludicrous, she laughed. The sound might have been hysterical; she did not know. She could not hear the sound, and for once, she did not mind. Her nerves were too close to the surface of her control to care if her voice was working properly in this instance.
"You must be patient with me. 'Tis not my usual role."
She stared at him, unable to speak. He did not mean to wash her. He could not.
And yet, he did not appear in the least like he was joking either. His mouth was set in a serious line while his eyes devoured her.
"I can wash myself."
"It will be my pleasure."
"But—"
No more words had a chance to make it past her lips before he began to wash her shift most thoroughly. Only every stroke of the soap cake over the fabric was a caress against the skin below it. He made sure the
"It's only midday. Surely you do not plan to accomplish the bedding right now?"
Had she thought him considerate? He was worse than the goat her sister had called him . . . He was a randy goat with no sense of decorum or modesty. Or . . . or . . . or anything else.
"It is time."
"No . . . no . . . we should wait until to night . You said I could wash, with soap."
"I will wash you." He closed the distance between them before she realized he was moving. "Let me help you with this."
She pulled back, but it was too late. He had her belt undone that fast. The pleats of her plaid simply fell, leaving the Scottish garment hanging over her shoulder like a long blanket. He tugged and it was gone completely, falling to a pool of fabric around her feet.
She turned and leapt for the relative safety of the pool, grateful that unlike her older sister, Abigail had learned to swim. It was deeper than she expected, and warmer than any bath she had ever taken. Her head submerged before her feet hit the bottom of the pool. Water swirled around her from Talorc's entry into the pool as she kicked upward and away from where she had felt him come in.
His hands locked on her waist and she broke the surface right in front of him. He was looking at her quizzically. "Do the English bathe in their clothes, then?"
Chapter 7
"My blouse needed washing." Which was nothing less than the truth.
"It is not the time for laundry; it is time for you to become my wife."
"No . . . I . . ."
He leaned down and brushed a kiss over her wet lips. "Yes."
"But . . ."
"I have waited long enough."
"It has only been two nights."
"I will have you now."
She shook her head.
He nodded.
Just like outside the cave. Only this time, she did not have some puny ravenous wild beast to worry about; she had her new husband's amorous nature.
She leaned back, trying to put distance between them.
"Take off your blouse."
Taking comfort in the fact he had not mentioned her shift, she tugged the now-soaking blouse over her head and tossed it to the side. It really would need a washing tomorrow after that treatment.
He looked down at her and his eyes burned. "Perhaps we should develop a new tradition of washing your shifts on you."
She looked down and immediately tried to cover herself. The thin fabric was completely transparent in the water. "You should not look at me like that."
"I am the only man that should."
"Naturally, no one else should either."
He pulled her toward him in the heated water until their bodies brushed. "Get used to it. I like looking at you."
"It is not decent."
"It is."
"Talorc . . ."
"Come, let us wash your shift." He let go of her waist but immediately slipped one of his arms around her so that he held her just as securely to him. Only he now did so with one hand free.
Backing toward the edge of the pool, he reached behind him with his hand. "Aha."
He held the soap up for her to see.
For a moment Abigail's need for cleanliness overshadowed her shyness and she reached for it.
But he shook his head. "I will play your handmaiden."
The idea was so ludicrous, she laughed. The sound might have been hysterical; she did not know. She could not hear the sound, and for once, she did not mind. Her nerves were too close to the surface of her control to care if her voice was working properly in this instance.
"You must be patient with me. 'Tis not my usual role."
She stared at him, unable to speak. He did not mean to wash her. He could not.
And yet, he did not appear in the least like he was joking either. His mouth was set in a serious line while his eyes devoured her.
"I can wash myself."
"It will be my pleasure."
"But—"
No more words had a chance to make it past her lips before he began to wash her shift most thoroughly. Only every stroke of the soap cake over the fabric was a caress against the skin below it. He made sure the
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