The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2(5)

"What do you think?"



"You need more of the nail brush on the right one."



He applied it vigorously. "Better?" he asked after a time.



"Good, but still dirty. Do you mind if I touch you?"



"Not at all," he said almost primly.



She took his hand and scrubbed the offending soil away, then looked carefully at the other.



He held still, retaining the deep breath he had taken into his lungs when she had first touched him. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had done anything so intimate. The warmth and slipperiness of the soap and water and her ministrations were a sensual caress which sent shivers up his spine and made his skin sizzle.



But of course, he reminded himself, he couldn't remember anything at all, which was why he was here with a complete stranger taking pity on him and helping him do something as childishly simple as wash his hands.



He tried not to let that thought anger him, but he detested feeling so helpless, especially in front of this obviously genteel woman. He had felt the fine linen of her gown, smelt her delicate perfume, like roses and honey, noted her fine accent. It was too shaming to be thus in front of anyone, let alone a lady of her quality.



But at least she seemed kind, and not terrified of him or his appearance, despite the fact that it must have been exceedingly disreputable.



And at least he was under a safe roof, out of the storm, and assured of a decent bed and a good meal for one night. It was a miracle after all he had suffered since he had been declared fit enough to travel and had left Spain.



As Sarah worked, she noticed that his hands were calloused and scarred, clear evidence of hard labor in recent years, though they did not have the often misshapen form that she saw with men who had toiled manually all their lives.



The contact with his wet soapy fingers was more thrilling that she ever could have imagined. She was glad he could not see her blushing to the roots of her hair, and only hoped he didn't notice her fingers trembling.



"There, all done," she said in a falsely hearty tone. She handed him a cloth to dry himself off.



"You might as well take off that jacket now, and give your hands another rinse."



"Are you sure you don't mind?"



"We don't stand upon ceremony in this house. The sight of shirt sleeves will not send me running in horror, I assure you."



He grinned at that and finally did as she had suggested.



She helped him off with the garment and then helped him find his way back to the basin, their fingers touching once more. She was astonished at her lack of shyness around this complete stranger. She was undressing him as though he were, well, a close relative. A husband, even.



She had nursed ill people in the past, even if never a blind person before. The physical contact was simply unsettling because he was so handsome, she admitted to herself.



But she couldn't allow herself to appear skittish. It was important to make the stranger welcome without suffocating him, and to get him comfortable and settled as soon as she could. He had evidently traveled a long way, and had to be exhausted.



As soon as he was washed, he could eat. As soon as he had eaten, he could have a bath and some clean clothes and a proper shave. He had evidently tried to do it himself, judging from various nicks on his face, and was lucky he had not done himself a permanent injury.



She seated him on the settle once more, and went back to the kitchen for the cheese and bread. She noted that Jenny had also put some beer and wine on the tray.



She decided it would not do any harm to permit him some. It would also tell her a lot about the character of the man who had come to see her brother. Soldiers were reputed to be hard drinkers, and very prone to wenching.



If he were to stay, she would need to know precisely what sort of chap he was. People could fib in response to overt questioning, but habits and mannerisms never lied.



"Here you are. Bread and cheese. Beer, or wine?"



"I adore wine, from my time on the Continent. But some good homemade English beer would be most welcome."



She handed him a glass, and he took a thirsty but by no means eager sip, and then set the beaker back down.



"Forgive me for asking, but I was wondering at the fact that you don't have any luggage."



He shook his head. "I had some when I left Spain, but by the time I got to London, I had been pretty much cleaned out."



"Cleaned out?" she repeated blankly.



"Thieves stole most of my things. Not that they were very valuable or anything. I mean, I had enough sense to keep my most important possessions about my person. I have some money, which I sewed into the lining of this jacket, and my papers in my breeches, and so on, but the rest of it went."