Since there was no telling what she was feeling from her expression, he replied with the truth. “It was my pleasure.”
Within a couple of minutes, the cold water was doing its job. “Damn, this is good,” he groaned on a complacent sigh.
She reached around him to collect the plates. “They don’t hurt anymore?”
“No.”
Her breast, plump and tempting, came into view as she removed her cup, reminding him of her injuries. He cleared his throat, not sure how to bring up the subject. She stared at him, waiting for him to speak, his dirty dishes in her hands.
“What about you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you soak your…er…did you treat your…uhm.”
Her face flamed bright red, leaving no doubt she understood. She shrugged, grimaced and muttered a hasty, “I’m fine.”
The bruise around her eye showed a revolting green against the bright red of her cheeks. It didn’t take schooling to know the woman hadn’t treated her own injuries. Hell. When had she had the time? She’d cooked him dinner with all that he’d asked for and then some. She’d fetched ice for his hands, and now she was cleaning up. Damn. As a husband, he wasn’t exactly outshining the competition.
“Put those dishes down and come here.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather get to them before the gravy hardens.”
“I mind.”
Her back to him, she dropped the plates into a basin set beside the stove. “That’s probably because you won’t have to scrub them in the morning,” she muttered.
He heard even though he bet he wasn’t supposed to. “I wasn’t making conversation, darlin’.”
She faced him, daring him.
“Come here.”
He’d seen grubs cross meadows faster than she got to his side.
With his foot, he snagged a chair and hauled it kitty corner to his own. “Sit down.”
She did with stiff-backed reluctance. “I’m fine, you know.”
“You’re sore.”
“Of course, I’m sore.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t act sooner.”
“You got there soon enough.”
Not in his opinion, but he was grateful she wasn’t screaming to point that out. One thing was for sure, his wife wasn’t bearing out the rumor that ladies were delicate. Hot on the heels of that thought came the image of Jimmy’s hand against Elizabeth’s breast. The cruelty on the bastard’s face lingered in his mind. Damn! No telling how much harm had been done. He pulled his hand out of the water and gingerly touched her breast. She gasped and shrank back into the chair.
“What are you doing?” If her face got any redder, she’d explode.
“I’m taking care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You have a husband now. You don’t have to.” He stood, using his height to keep her from bolting. “What in hell do you have on under this dress?”
“It’s called a corset.”
He traced the ridges until they stopped at her waist. Hell! She was trussed up tighter than a Christmas goose. “You got a broken rib or something?”
“No. It’s an…unmentionable.”
He wouldn’t mention it either if he were dumb enough to let someone harness him into anything as uncomfortable as what he was touching. He didn’t claim to have many dealings with decent women, and the women he did sport with normally weren’t wearing anything that got in the way of business, but common sense said a body didn’t cage itself to the point of pain.
“You wear this often?”
“No decent woman would leave the house without it. Could you please remove your hand?”
He looked at her closely. “Am I hurting you?”
She swallowed twice before she managed the lie. “Yes.”
He moved his hand gently under her breast. It probably labeled him a bastard, but the feel of that soft resilient flesh curving into his palm had his cock painfully hard and straining. Near as he could tell, the iron-like contraption she called a corset wrapped under each breast, imprisoning it. He remembered Jimmy’s grip, the way he’d ground her flesh around. “Shit. Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt that bad?”
She didn’t offer an answer. “Please take your hand away.”
He did, but only to set to work on the buttons of her dress. Her hands caught his.
“Please.”
“I aim to see how bad that bastard hurt you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Prove it.”
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, the wildness was gone. Poker-faced, she asked, “Is that an order?”
“Yes.”
In the controlled voice he remembered from Dell’s, she asked, “Do you mean to strip me bare in the kitchen or could I move to the privacy of the bedroom?”
His neck heated as he realized, with the kerosene lamps burning, anyone could see into the kitchen. He cleared his throat. “The bedroom is fine.”
“Could I be allowed a moment of privacy or would you like to tear my dress off yourself?”
The disdain in her voice flicked him on a raw spot. He was tempted to strip her just to prove who was boss, but then he remembered she was a woman married to a stranger and this was her wedding night. To top it off, she’d just been accosted.