abdomen. His untamed beauty was somehow terrible to behold, smeared with the blood from the wound on his side, his lean waist still girded with an array of weapons in holsters and sheaths. Dropping his bloodstained shirt carelessly on the floor, he blotted his face with the knotted blue neckerchief loosely tied around his neck and went to the old, curve-topped trunk at the foot of his bed.
He undid the leather straps and opened it, but when he turned away, her jaw dropped at the heathenish tattoos that adorned his back and massive arms.
“Do you even speak French?” he asked without turning to her.
For a moment, she could not find her wits to reply. “O-of course,” she stammered, gazing at his fascinating body. Most of her education had been conducted in the French tongue, but at the moment, she could only recall that it was the traditional language of
amour
.
The smooth, bronzed satin of his skin had been etched with an array of swirling designs and colorful drawings that ranged from the fanciful to the humorous. Her marveling stare traveled over his painted warrior’s body. Oh, how deliciously
horrid
he was, she thought, utterly mesmerized. A crossed sword and pistol wrapped in a laurel wreath adorned his right biceps; a fire-breathing dragon coiled around his left. A Union Jack rode his left shoulder, while a big-breasted mermaid posed prettily on a rock near his right hip, but the largest picture, spanning the center of his back, showed a dark phoenix rising from flames, its wings outspread.
The dragon on his left arm stretched sinuously as he reached into the trunk and pulled out a wooden medicine box. As he straightened up again, she belatedly remembered her task. Turning away, her cheeks crimson, she hurried to fill the washbasin with warm water from the kettle, but his low, rich, pirate laughter followed her.
“Want to pet my dragon, sweetheart? ”
“You really are too crude for words,” she said hotly as he passed behind her with an easy stealth in his walk, like a great, golden leopard covered in his fantastic markings.
Chuckling, he set the medicine box on the chest of drawers. “You’re the one who was staring.”
“No. I wasn’t.” Doing her best to ignore him, she found a small towel on the mantel and folded it to protect her hand from the heat. Gingerly reaching toward the fire, she was acutely aware of him coming up behind her. Her fingers curled around the handle.
“Liar.”
Her heart pounding foolishly at his whisper, she lifted the pot out with care, the steam rising in tendrils to moisten her chest and throat and cheeks in wet swirling warmth like a lover’s breath upon her skin. Mere inches behind her, his overwhelming magnetism and the sudden wave of heat as she poured the water into the basin made her head faint. “It’s all right, you know. I don’t mind if you look at me. I’ve been looking at you.” He reached over her arm, lingering dangerously near as he took the pot out of her trembling hold; her stomach flip-flopped when their hands touched.
“Keep your distance!” she ordered, dismayed when her voice came out breathlessly. “That is—I will thank you to behave with a bit more decorum.”
“Decorum? Right.” He flicked a wary glance over her. “Look at milady, hard at work in her ball gown,” he taunted softly, his warm breath tickling her ear. “You weren’t made for doin‘ chores, princess. Allow me.”
To her vexation, she quivered even as he mocked her. Sending her a knowing little smile, he set the pot back on the fire and took the large bowl of water from her.
He went over to set it on the chest of drawers and put it down, then pulled the wooden chair over, twirled it about-face, and straddled it, draping his elbow across the top slat. “Never seen tattoos on a man before?”
She had never seen a man’s naked torso before, tattooed or otherwise, but it hardly seemed worth mentioning. “Where did you get them?”
“Church Street.”
She
He undid the leather straps and opened it, but when he turned away, her jaw dropped at the heathenish tattoos that adorned his back and massive arms.
“Do you even speak French?” he asked without turning to her.
For a moment, she could not find her wits to reply. “O-of course,” she stammered, gazing at his fascinating body. Most of her education had been conducted in the French tongue, but at the moment, she could only recall that it was the traditional language of
amour
.
The smooth, bronzed satin of his skin had been etched with an array of swirling designs and colorful drawings that ranged from the fanciful to the humorous. Her marveling stare traveled over his painted warrior’s body. Oh, how deliciously
horrid
he was, she thought, utterly mesmerized. A crossed sword and pistol wrapped in a laurel wreath adorned his right biceps; a fire-breathing dragon coiled around his left. A Union Jack rode his left shoulder, while a big-breasted mermaid posed prettily on a rock near his right hip, but the largest picture, spanning the center of his back, showed a dark phoenix rising from flames, its wings outspread.
The dragon on his left arm stretched sinuously as he reached into the trunk and pulled out a wooden medicine box. As he straightened up again, she belatedly remembered her task. Turning away, her cheeks crimson, she hurried to fill the washbasin with warm water from the kettle, but his low, rich, pirate laughter followed her.
“Want to pet my dragon, sweetheart? ”
“You really are too crude for words,” she said hotly as he passed behind her with an easy stealth in his walk, like a great, golden leopard covered in his fantastic markings.
Chuckling, he set the medicine box on the chest of drawers. “You’re the one who was staring.”
“No. I wasn’t.” Doing her best to ignore him, she found a small towel on the mantel and folded it to protect her hand from the heat. Gingerly reaching toward the fire, she was acutely aware of him coming up behind her. Her fingers curled around the handle.
“Liar.”
Her heart pounding foolishly at his whisper, she lifted the pot out with care, the steam rising in tendrils to moisten her chest and throat and cheeks in wet swirling warmth like a lover’s breath upon her skin. Mere inches behind her, his overwhelming magnetism and the sudden wave of heat as she poured the water into the basin made her head faint. “It’s all right, you know. I don’t mind if you look at me. I’ve been looking at you.” He reached over her arm, lingering dangerously near as he took the pot out of her trembling hold; her stomach flip-flopped when their hands touched.
“Keep your distance!” she ordered, dismayed when her voice came out breathlessly. “That is—I will thank you to behave with a bit more decorum.”
“Decorum? Right.” He flicked a wary glance over her. “Look at milady, hard at work in her ball gown,” he taunted softly, his warm breath tickling her ear. “You weren’t made for doin‘ chores, princess. Allow me.”
To her vexation, she quivered even as he mocked her. Sending her a knowing little smile, he set the pot back on the fire and took the large bowl of water from her.
He went over to set it on the chest of drawers and put it down, then pulled the wooden chair over, twirled it about-face, and straddled it, draping his elbow across the top slat. “Never seen tattoos on a man before?”
She had never seen a man’s naked torso before, tattooed or otherwise, but it hardly seemed worth mentioning. “Where did you get them?”
“Church Street.”
She
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