Chapter Four

The water was cold and just deep enough to reach her hips. She wanted to sink down to immerse herself completely. She leaned her head back to soak her hair and then reached for the bar of soap and found that the act of washing her hair was one that was beyond her current abilities.

The sky might have cleared, he may have thought her strong enough for a bath—and yes, she could withstand the cold river water for the chance to no longer smell herself—but he did not have hair that fell past his waist.

She eyed him where he lay, staring at the sky, ostensibly not looking at her, despite the fact that he had already seen her body in its entirety. It was different now, somehow, with her standing outside, on the path to healing. Embarrassment and something else, some desire to taunt propriety even more now that she was so far from civilization, warred within her.

“Gerard,” she called. The name felt foreign, awkward, on her tongue. Calling him by any name at all made things more concrete, but she wanted to taunt him. He was staring at her, his expression a question. “Would you…assist me?”

For a moment he didn’t move, and then in one nimble motion he was on his feet, divesting himself of his clothes. Shocked, she looked away, then looked back. He had looked at her body dispassionately. She would view his much the same. After all, she had seen men nude before. Sculptures and drawings of men, at least. Real men were never as perfect as the imaginings of artists.

Except…this man was.

His clothes concealed a body that was tall, lithe and strong. Muscles cleanly defined and yet not the bulky strength of the peasants in the field, or of the men who frequented Gentleman Jackson’s. He left his drawers on but as he stepped into the water, her gaze was drawn to the rest of his body, to the puckering of his nipples, the goose bumps on his skin.

She tensed in embarrassment. She was naked and he was practically so. As he stepped closer, the plan no longer seemed like a good idea. Breath came with more difficulty and she was all too aware that he was going to touch her, and touching her this time would be different. For her, but not for him. She clung to that, repeated it in her mind. It was only Jane with these wayward thoughts. Perhaps it was the danger that made him more fascinating to her, to this new version of her that was so susceptible to emotion.

“I wished to give you some privacy but I should have realized you would need help,” he said, moving behind her, placing one warm palm on the damp curve of her head. He threaded his fingers through her hair and her scalp tingled with the sensation.

Then the scent of caraway and lemon. She was inordinately grateful that this strange man had an item of such luxury.

“Have you done this before?”

“Whenever I take a bath.”

She let out a soft huff. “You know very well that isn’t what I mean.”

“This is another of your questions. Have I ever been in love? Have I ever washed a woman’s hair? No. You are the first.”

She liked the way he cared for her, the way he touched her so gently. There had never been anyone in her life to treat her this way and it was…beguiling.

“You are doing quite well for a beginner,” she managed to say. His fingers kneaded her head, her neck, and she fell into that touch, into that and the water, her eyes drifting shut, warm pleasure radiating down her body.

Her legs started to buckle and then she was in his arms. She let him take over. He leaned her back over one of his arms so that her hair was under water, and as he raked his fingers through the strands, washing the soap away, she opened her eyes again.

His face was inches from hers and her breath caught in her throat as she admired him, admired the different textures of his skin, the jaw roughened by a day’s growth, the neck smooth, his shoulders—

Her fingers itched and she lifted her arm a half inch to feel that juxtaposition of rough and smooth before the acute pain of her injuries stopped her. He must have shaved at some point. The soap, the shaving, the clean scent of him… He was a man who attended to details.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked as he straightened her. She stumbled on the rocky bottom of the stream and he caught her against him. Their bodies were both wet and cold, and hers was now screaming with renewed agony, and yet she wanted to stay there, pressed against him, nakedness to nakedness, as if they were Adam and Eve.

If only this were a dream. If only she could enjoy this fantasy and know that it would be gone come morning. But each time she woke, despite this world apart, despite saying that here she had been born anew, somewhere Lady Jane Langley waited.

He had bathed her body before, with a cloth, stripped away her torn and bloodstained clothes, both for access to her wounds and to make an escape impossible for her before he had decided on a course of action. He had felt nothing but curiosity and frustration at the compulsion to let her live. This, bathing the soap from her hair, supporting her naked body against his naked chest—it had seemed an intelligent idea at first to peel away the majority of his clothes so that he did not soak them. But skin against skin, even if wet and slippery—in the fresh air of a post rain autumn day—was an unexpected aphrodisiac.

He should not have been surprised by his desire. She was a female and he a male. Attraction was natural. And danger tantalizingly tinged their encounter with that of the forbidden. But there was dangerous and then there was stupid. Never before had Gerard been stupid. He would not be now.

And she was injured, her body mottled in bruises turned purple. Still…warmth unfurled within him, as did a growing tightness, a need. But her hair was clean, as was her body. He could stop touching her, and with that thought he lifted her up, carried her out of the water to the blanket, which was hardly clean, but better to ruin this one than the other blanket he had procured.

He wrapped her up, rubbed her down, and her eyes fluttered open. She watched him and he struggled to ignore that gaze. He was all too aware of her now. The body he had assessed dispassionately was achingly feminine, covered only by his blanket. In the past twenty-four hours he had been drawn in by the suspicion of a sharp intellect, by a certain quality about this woman that was irresistible. It was inevitable that attraction to the physical would follow.

He had not missed her glances, the expression of pleasure on her face. Whether she would acknowledge it or not, she was as affected by him as he was by her. Not only in the ineffable way that made them say things to each other no stranger would ever say to another, but physically.

He helped her into the spare shirt he kept in his saddlebag, watched as the snowy cloth obscured her form. He knew what lay beneath, but he did not know what lay beneath her skin.

“What was your relationship to Powell?” The question was abrupt, designed to remind him of the seriousness of this endeavor. Remind himself that the job was not complete until he had received the second half of his payment, that he could not indulge in frivolous thoughts such as desire. It was time for answers. There were other threats to her life and to his.

“Ah, I see now. You soften me with a bath, with a clean garment, and then you interrogate me. Is this some new method to ensure that information is true? I have heard that those who are tortured will often say anything to make the agony end.”

He shook his head. She had laid out a good strategy but it had not been his aim. It should have been.

He waited for her answer. The silence between them grew, turned uncomfortable.

“Acquaintances traveling to the same destination. I thought to gain a few hours of amusement by joining him and his wife for the day.”

He laughed again, though there was little of humor in it.

Her sidelong gaze was full of irony. “This was not exactly the entertainment I imagined.”

“And who were your original companions?” He lifted her up, started the short walk back to their shelter. She smelled clean against him, and beneath the edge of the shirt, her bare legs hung over his arm.

“So you can establish my identity?” He liked the way she looked, eyes glittering, face animated. “I am increasingly confident that my presence was not in your plans. Why should you know any more about me than I know about you?”

Because it was his job to know everything. He should have known who she was, and that she had switched carriages. Knowledge in his line of work was power. Withholding knowledge was also power, but he had admitted enough to let her know that she was right. She had been a surprise and continued to be one.

“You know my name,” he said. “What is yours?”

“Your Christian name, if that is actually yours,” she returned quickly. He said nothing. Better that she thought it untrue. But Gerard was the one thing he had been given at birth that he retained.

Her silence bothered him. It would be easy enough to discover who she was; surely by now people were searching for her, her name dropped at every local inn. However, an insidious part of him wanted her to offer up the information of her own free will. As if that would mean something.

She rested against his chest and with the gentle pressure of her head on his skin, the energetic tension turned to something else, something intimate and overwhelming. His chest ached with an unfamiliar protectiveness.

“Jane,” she said softly.

His arms tightened about her, triumph surging inside, which he tamped down as quickly as it came. Jane. Quite common in England. A sensible, economical name, one that fit her. A name that gained a sensual appeal by simply being hers. She imbued everything about her with that appeal. He had to resist burying his nose against her skin to breathe in that scent that was distinctly hers beneath the lemon and grass.

He carried her back to the bed, laid her down and stood, at a loss, hands empty. He had pressed his body against hers for warmth all through the night. Yet now, now that he was acutely aware of her, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Despite the fact that one wall of this structure was nearly gone and half the roof missing, he felt trapped.

There were things he should be doing. He needed to secure the area and they needed food. He also needed to listen to the local gossip, discover what talk about the carriage “accident” might be circulating. He had traveled with Jane as far away from the site as he could with her injuries, but every minute that they lingered here increased the risk of being discovered. Before first light they would move on. She was strong enough.

After that…at some point he would need to decide what to do with her.

“Rest. I will return soon.”

“You don’t worry that I’ll flee now that I have this voluminous garment?”

She was not a small woman and yet his shirt swamped her. Everywhere but the long legs it revealed. Shapely legs. Legs he could part with his hands as he ran them over her silken skin.

“And no shoes. You won’t get far.”

“I am quite inventive if need be.”

He studied her. She was healing, but she was in no condition to travel on her own. Even with shoes. He suspected her of trying to rile him, to argue for the sake of arguing, but…

“Do you intend to flee?”

She smiled. “Will I have to? I can’t imagine you would want to keep me here forever.”

Of course not. The idea was ridiculous. At least, the part that included staying in their present location. He was used to planning far in advance and for every eventuality, so that usually his spontaneous actions were in truth merely the execution of a back-up plan.

There was little of the usual about this situation, and he had no answer for her. Instead, he laughed and settled for the only truth he could give. “I’ll be back.”