Dirk let out an exasperated breath. "Nay. I'm asking you to leave. Now," he said firmly.
"There is no need for stubbornness. Do you need your back washed or not?"
"You cannot. You have a splint on your finger."
"Nay, I removed it today." She held up her hand, showing him.
"You shouldn't have. 'Tis too soon," he grumbled. "I doubt your bone is knitted back together yet."
"'Tis fine, I assure you." She moved forward.
He muttered a curse under his breath. "You are not a servant. You are betrothed to another man."
"What does that matter? I'm but helping you bathe. Not… seducing you."
He gave her a harsh glare and, for a second, she understood why the servants feared him so much. He appeared a blood-thirsty Norse invader like the ones her father's bard had told stories about from hundreds of years ago, ready to lay waste to the entire country. But she knew he wasn't like that.
"You think I am incapable of helping you bathe?" she asked, stopping before the tub and crossing her arms over her breasts.
"Not incapable. 'Tis simply a terrible idea."
"Don't be silly." She ignored the frown and approached him. His naked torso above the water was enough to distract any woman. Dirk's chest, shoulders and arms were composed of large iron-hard muscles. Heavens, the sight of him near took her breath away. A sprinkling of light hair on his chest tapered downward toward his waist. A quick glance told her a linen cloth lay in the water over his lap.
She moved in behind him and found the soap on the floor beside the tub.
"Could you lean forward?" she asked.
When he did, she had a splendid view of his back in the firelight… the ridges of muscle, the scars, and the birthmark in the shape of a dirk. She'd heard the clan elders talking about it and how the mark proved who he was. The scar below it was especially fearsome and rough but did not appear to be a sword wound.
"What happened here?" She ran her fingers over the uneven white scar tissue.
He blew out a hissing breath. "That's where I slid down the cliff twelve summers ago. The jagged rocks tore into my flesh, but 'twas those same rocks that stopped my fall when they caught my plaid.
"Oh." She smoothed her soap-slicked fingers over the mar to his perfect body. If this scar meant his life was saved, then she was thankful for the wicked mark.
He could've so easily died when he was fifteen and then she would've never had this opportunity to appreciate him. As she ran her soapy hands over his shoulder blades, and his massive shoulders, she found herself cherishing and admiring him. Not only his impressive body, but him as a man. She had never known anyone like him.
Wetting her hands and soaping them again, she washed his back, attempting to dig her fingertips into his hard muscles, but that was impossible, tense as he was.
"I know what you're trying to do," he muttered.
"I'm trying to wash your back," she assured him, hoping he couldn't read her mind.
"I'm not daft, lass."
"Of course not. You're highly intelligent."
He blew out a breath, and his teeth grated together in an audible click.
"What do you think I'm trying to do?" she asked, truly curious about his thoughts. Maybe they were like the thoughts he'd had on the battlements days ago… that he wanted her. That he once again craved what they'd shared in bed that night. With the passionate way he'd confessed his desires before that stunning kiss, he'd stolen her heart.
"God's teeth," he growled. "You don't have to do this, Isobel. I'll protect you from those who would harm you."
"I know that. You're incredibly honorable. 'Tis time to wash your hair. Are you ready?"
"Aye."
She lifted a bucket of warm water and poured half of it over his head.
He sputtered and shook his head, flinging droplets of water onto her skirts.
Taking the soap again, she smoothed his hair back from his high forehead and soaped it up thoroughly.
Though he sat in silence with his eyes closed to prevent the soap getting into them, his entire body was tense. As she stood over him, she had a perfect view over his shoulder toward his lap. The linen was exceedingly tented now. Prior to a few nights ago, when she'd experienced his stone-hard member sliding into her, she might have wondered how that part of his body could possibly tent linen. She had felt her elderly husband's shaft, and it was but a flimsy dangling thing. She had often wondered why on earth it would be called a shaft if it wasn't stiff like an arrow.
Now she understood that a shaft was indeed supposed to be stiff… when aroused. 'Twas also clear that Dirk became irritable when he was aroused. That was a detail Beitris had neglected to tell her about men.