Della’s body filled with an intense fire only he could tame. Longing and desire swam in her head until she thought she might faint from the torture of his nearness. She wanted to hold him, but didn’t dare try.
Brant moved to the tub. Stepping into the water, he sank into the bath, resting his head on the hard metal edge. Only then did he look at her, his eyes searching hers, but she didn’t know for what. Insecure, she looked away, naturally making her expression icily calm.
She picked up his discarded clothing, careful to keep her eyes from straying to his perfect form. His unanswered question still hung in the air, but she could not find the right words. Would she care if he were with other women? How could she not? The thought burned her with the jealousy it caused. She could not answer him for the truth was too painful and she would not lie.
Della held the material to her chest and finally managed to meet his piercing gaze. “I will see that these get to the wash. There are fresh clothes in your trunk. If you like, I will set them out for you when I get back.” She started to go, only to stop. “Oh, and there is some soap on the far side of the tub, on top of the linens.”
Della didn’t want to leave him and stood for a long moment, thinking of something she could say. She was tired of fighting. The unbearable nearness of his naked body wreaked havoc on her already swirling emotions. Lust burned a trail through her soul, leaving hot, tingling sensations all over her flesh. She wanted him to look at her as he once had, with a roguish smile curling his firm masculine lips. But that was before her anger had taken her too far—before her heart had realized how harsh its hatred of him was and how misguided.
“About Rab, I asked him to tell you that I humbly requested you bathe and change. Did he not say that?” Della kept her face blank. “I did not wish to anger you.”
“It’s fine, Della. Fret no more about it.”
The boy had been telling the truth. Brant closed his eyes, not moving in the warm water. She’d avoided responding to his question, just as she avoided touching his hand when he entered the room. A well of hopeless despair deepened within him, swallowing his heart. What did he care? His heart was dead anyway.
Brant heard his wife moving about the chamber behind him. He rotated his head against the rim of the tub to stare aimlessly into the fire, knowing when she left with his dirty clothes and the moment she returned. She was quiet and he didn’t know what to say to her. Finally making himself move, he washed with the strong soap that had been laid out. He tried to pretend she wasn’t there, but he was always aware of her.
He heard his trunk open and guessed she laid out his clothing. He splashed unintentionally and her breath caught. Brant glanced at her to see her bent over her own trunk, pulling out some of her jars. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders, slightly disheveled. He quickly turned away before she saw him looking.
“Let me help you with your hair,” she said.
The fleeting touch of her fingers glanced over his shoulder as she kneeled beside him. In her hand was a pair of shears. Hesitant, she lifted her hand to his bearded face. Her eyes stayed steadily on his. Brant didn’t move as her fingers glided near his lip. The caress was small and unintentional, but it caused his gut to tighten as lust centered between his thighs. He wondered if she detected the reaction because she hurriedly turned his jaw to the side and his eyes away from her. Lifting the shears to his face, she began to trim his beard. Brant tensed, waiting for the blades to slice through him, not sure if he’d be surprised if she stabbed him in the chest.
He felt the subtle shift of her fingers, as she angled his head to trim the other side. Her beautifully pale face was set in concentration and her scent lingered in the air, embracing him in wildflowers. Her lips parted, forcing him to suppress a groan of agony. The slightest movement would meet her mouth with his, but he held fast, refusing to kiss her. She leaned closer and her breath whispered over his skin, tickling his shoulder. Brant closed his eyes and forced himself to relax.
“Go under.”
Was he mistaken or did her voice seem a bit husky? He did as she commanded, too weary not to comply. Resurfacing, he wiped the water from his face.
“Would you like me to trim your hair as well?” she asked.
“Nay, it’s fine as is.”
Della began to stand. Brant grabbed her arm, wetting her sleeve as he kept her next to him. Her eyes rounded and she settled once more beside him.
“If you would not mind, I would like it if you washed my hair for me.” Brant almost hadn’t made the request. He eyed her thoughtfully.
Della nodded, reaching to the side to pick up a jar. She dipped a finger inside and rubbed her palms together, lathering the soap before moving to massage his scalp. Scrubbing his hair and beard clean, she ordered him to rinse the suds from his head. When he surfaced, she applied another cream to him. Brant instantly recognized the smell. It was the same concoction she’d used the first night they made love. Did she remember it also?