Lydia carefully unfastened the bandage around Max’s arm as he soaked in their tub. Aware that she wore only a thin robe over her chemise and Max was spending more time gazing at her breasts than washing, she warmed all over. “Now tell me the real story. This is a nasty gash.”
“But that’s all it is, a gash. It probably hurt worse when George kicked my shin.” He sank deeper into the bubbles she’d added.
“Your uncle really lost his mind?” she asked, prying information out of him the same way she pried off the bandage.
“Mad as hops, at least. He brandished a gun. People objected. George tried to take it away, and my uncle started shooting cherubs off the ceiling. I got nicked by flying marble. So did a few others.” He shrugged. “It’s not a badge of honor. The real surprise was my cousins flocking to save me from being murdered.”
Lydia breathed easier, from his tale and from examining the wound. It was nasty and someone had added a few stitches, but it didn’t seem red after the strain he must have put on it riding up here. “I must find some way to thank them from keeping you away from a brawl.”
“Oh, well, there was a bit of a collie-shangles, if I’m to be totally honest.” He checked the wound and scrubbed around it.
“Collie-shangles?” Lydia asked weakly. “A gun sounds like a little more than a quarrel.”
“Someone had to stop more lead from ricocheting into the crowd,” he replied pragmatically. “Do you know the place on your elbow that almost paralyzes your arm if you bang it wrong?”
Lydia winced and patted his wound dry so she could wrap it fresh. “It hurts awfully.”
“Well, the quickest way to make someone drop something is to whack that bone. So I borrowed a walking stick and hit the old. . .” He cut off the word he meant to say and said instead, “Gentleman.”
“Oh, dear. And then?”
“He lost his grip on the gun. It hit the floor. The bullet in the chamber went off and nicked someone else, and before long, we had a little contretemps going. Jolly good fun and all that, but the coppers looked poorly on it. Uncle David got hauled off. But I was bleeding all over the place and they thought me a victim, so I escaped. I owe my cousins and some friends a barrel of whisky.”
Lydia sighed. “And you didn’t tell this to the ladies, why? You were a hero! Your uncle could have hurt someone very badly.” She leaned over and kissed him square on the mouth.
He circled her waist and half pulled her into the tub with him. “Better heroes than me out there. I just want to be a good husband and engineer.” He kissed her thoroughly.
She pushed away and handed him a towel. “And father,” she added. “Do you think you’ll ever see your third son?”
Max dried his hair. “He’s in Colorado, living in a mansion. I left him funds for when he turns eighteen, if he wants to find me. I’d rather he used them for school.” He stood in all his naked glory and watched her worriedly. “Is that wrong of me?”
“Not necessarily, but he needs to know to find you here. What if he has Malcolm traits?” Distracted by his casual toweling off, Lydia wasn’t sure where she’d meant to take this conversation.
“Unlikely, but we can write. His mother will tear any letters apart, so I’ll write the banker in charge of the trust. Or you’ll write him for me.” He grinned and stepped out of the tub. “Just think of all the money I’ll save by not hiring assistants to keep up with family for me.”
“You’ll hire your own secretary,” she said firmly, not backing away when he advanced on her, still wet. She was already soaked anyway. “I am busy and other people can use the work. With wealth comes responsibility.”
“I think I just hired an entire village,” he said with a laugh, capturing her waist with his good arm. “We will be poor wastrels if we do not find oil that’s easily removed from the ground. We will need to be inventive to keep all those men employed and productive. Shall we build a new stable? Housing for tenants?”
“As long as we have the tower for us,” she murmured, reaching to kiss his whiskery jaw. “You can build a new city out there for all I care. A good dressmaker would be convenient.”
“I like the way you think!” And then, with just his one good arm, he carried her to the bed.
After that, neither of them engaged in thinking. Lydia was quite certain Max had her seeing the moon and stars above.
Perhaps their child would be clairvoyant. Or better yet, a librarian engineer who would keep the library in good repair into the next century.