favor.”
She glanced at his bloodstained shirt. Went into her room and fetched the scissors from the sewing box, and promptly went about cutting off the shirt. She ignored the contours of his chest as she went about the task. Ignored the ridged muscles in his abdomen. The bulge of muscles standing out in shoulder and arm. The smooth, nearly hairless expanse of his skin, testament to the elven blood running through his veins.
She set cloth to soap and plunged it in the bucket. Wiped down his arm, his chest, his belly, always careful to keep the cloth between the touch of her fingers on his bare skin. His eyes closed, and she thought he might have lost consciousness, except for the sighs that occasionally escaped his lips.
He had extraordinarily full lips for a man.
Camille found herself breathing hard. Too hard to account for the small labor of washing him. Heaven help her. She had never desired a man before this moment. But she recognized the feeling. Because sometimes her traitorous body gained pleasure from the soldiers, and she could not stop it. And this had disgusted her most of all.
Lord Hawkes had lulled her into a false sense of security. He made no movement to touch her. Had made no advances to threaten her, to weaken her guard. But how much magical glamour had he cast over her?
Tricky bastard.
Camille jerked away from him and abruptly flung the reddened cloth into the bucket.
He opened one eye. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing, sir. You are as clean as I can manage at the moment.”
“I see.” He shifted on the bed. “What is taking Edward so long? Even a good healer cannot stop the fever completely if the wound festers.”
Camille sniffed, refusing to be put off her guard again with sympathy. Besides, he had probably acquired the injury by flirting with some man’s wife and being taken to account for it. The scenario happened all the time with the aristocracy, much to the amusement of the elven lord. She sometimes wondered if they did it just to please him.
“How did you come by your injury, sir?”
His other lid flew open, and the color of his eyes darkened to a smoky gold. Those lips narrowed, and his face hardened with a mask Camille somehow thought familiar to him. As if he had adopted the wearing of it over the years.
When he spoke, his voice vibrated with some deep emotion. “Let us just say that the slave master shall never beat another woman again.”
Camille gasped. Swayed on her feet. She remembered something he said last night, but the pain of her back had made her only half-aware. She thought she had misheard him, or that his vow had been spoken only in the heat of the moment. Apparently, Viscount Hawkes could be taken at his word. “Did you kill him?”
His smooth chest rose and fell on a great sigh, and when he spoke again, he used the same gentle tone she had grown accustomed to. “I have killed men only in self-defense. I certainly could not kill one who wept at my feet, despite the temptation to do so.”
The master had wept? She always suspected him to be a coward. Lord Hawkes only confirmed it.
But she must be mistaken. Surely the viscount had not fought the man just because he had beaten a mere slave. The slave master had been employed for that very task. There must be more to the story.
“Did he insult you?” she inquired, although she could not imagine a man foolish enough to do so.
“Yes.” Those golden eyes glittered.
“What did he do?”
“He dared to harm someone I care about. And if you insist on keeping me distracted by talking until the healer comes, I need a glass of port. No, brandy. The pain is getting annoying.”
A rush of shame made Camille flee the room again, this time knocking over a tea table in the process, scattering golden teacups about the room. She did not stop to bother with it. Within a moment she returned to his bedchamber, decanter of brandy and glass in hand.
Her hand shook as she poured. Surely he had not challenged the master to
She glanced at his bloodstained shirt. Went into her room and fetched the scissors from the sewing box, and promptly went about cutting off the shirt. She ignored the contours of his chest as she went about the task. Ignored the ridged muscles in his abdomen. The bulge of muscles standing out in shoulder and arm. The smooth, nearly hairless expanse of his skin, testament to the elven blood running through his veins.
She set cloth to soap and plunged it in the bucket. Wiped down his arm, his chest, his belly, always careful to keep the cloth between the touch of her fingers on his bare skin. His eyes closed, and she thought he might have lost consciousness, except for the sighs that occasionally escaped his lips.
He had extraordinarily full lips for a man.
Camille found herself breathing hard. Too hard to account for the small labor of washing him. Heaven help her. She had never desired a man before this moment. But she recognized the feeling. Because sometimes her traitorous body gained pleasure from the soldiers, and she could not stop it. And this had disgusted her most of all.
Lord Hawkes had lulled her into a false sense of security. He made no movement to touch her. Had made no advances to threaten her, to weaken her guard. But how much magical glamour had he cast over her?
Tricky bastard.
Camille jerked away from him and abruptly flung the reddened cloth into the bucket.
He opened one eye. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing, sir. You are as clean as I can manage at the moment.”
“I see.” He shifted on the bed. “What is taking Edward so long? Even a good healer cannot stop the fever completely if the wound festers.”
Camille sniffed, refusing to be put off her guard again with sympathy. Besides, he had probably acquired the injury by flirting with some man’s wife and being taken to account for it. The scenario happened all the time with the aristocracy, much to the amusement of the elven lord. She sometimes wondered if they did it just to please him.
“How did you come by your injury, sir?”
His other lid flew open, and the color of his eyes darkened to a smoky gold. Those lips narrowed, and his face hardened with a mask Camille somehow thought familiar to him. As if he had adopted the wearing of it over the years.
When he spoke, his voice vibrated with some deep emotion. “Let us just say that the slave master shall never beat another woman again.”
Camille gasped. Swayed on her feet. She remembered something he said last night, but the pain of her back had made her only half-aware. She thought she had misheard him, or that his vow had been spoken only in the heat of the moment. Apparently, Viscount Hawkes could be taken at his word. “Did you kill him?”
His smooth chest rose and fell on a great sigh, and when he spoke again, he used the same gentle tone she had grown accustomed to. “I have killed men only in self-defense. I certainly could not kill one who wept at my feet, despite the temptation to do so.”
The master had wept? She always suspected him to be a coward. Lord Hawkes only confirmed it.
But she must be mistaken. Surely the viscount had not fought the man just because he had beaten a mere slave. The slave master had been employed for that very task. There must be more to the story.
“Did he insult you?” she inquired, although she could not imagine a man foolish enough to do so.
“Yes.” Those golden eyes glittered.
“What did he do?”
“He dared to harm someone I care about. And if you insist on keeping me distracted by talking until the healer comes, I need a glass of port. No, brandy. The pain is getting annoying.”
A rush of shame made Camille flee the room again, this time knocking over a tea table in the process, scattering golden teacups about the room. She did not stop to bother with it. Within a moment she returned to his bedchamber, decanter of brandy and glass in hand.
Her hand shook as she poured. Surely he had not challenged the master to
Similar Books
