She nodded, even though the move hurt her head, and he slowly set her down, letting her slide against his body, and if the aftereffects of being shot hadn’t made her knees weak the feel of his body would have done so. She stood in the circle of his arms, and it took her a moment to realize what he was doing. He was unfastening the buttons at her throat.
“No,” she croaked, but the way he held her, good arm trapped against her side, gave her no way to fight. He undid them quickly, efficiently, then slid the nightdress down.
“Don’t be juvenile, Bryony,” he said in a comfortingly matter-of-fact voice. “You can’t bathe in your nightdress—it’s the only one you have left.”
That was the last thing she wanted to think about. “The shift stays on,” she said. It provided scant modesty, but she’d take what she could get.
“Whatever you say, Bryony.” He picked her up and carried her over to the deep, steaming copper tub, started to put her in. At the last minute he somehow managed to pull off the shift, just as she was sinking into the blissfully warm water, and she had to swallow her instinctive shriek of protest.
The warm water felt so good she didn’t bother to argue. He’d held on to her bandaged arm, letting it rest carefully on the high side of the tub, and there was nothing salacious about his expression. She might have felt better if there was.
“Are you going to drown me?” She hadn’t meant for those words to come out, but she was still groggy from the drugs.
He laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “No, I’m not going to kill you. I’m not a murderer, no matter what it looks like.”
She sighed, sinking further into the lovely water. Too late she realized her hair was flowing around her, and she tried to sit up, but he pushed her back, gently. “If you want the blood washed from your hair you’re going to have to let me do it.”
She considered it. But he was viewing her with all the passion of a man surveying a suet pudding, and though she couldn’t remember the details of that rapturous time on the kitchen table, she knew that she’d ended the night the way she started it, still a virgin. So clearly he’d lost interest in her. He was merely doing this out of the kindness of his heart.
Then again, she was under no illusion that Kilmartyn had a kind heart. Nevertheless, the warm water was drugging her far more pleasantly than the laudanum had, and she wasn’t going to fight. “Go ahead,” she said ungraciously. “Just don’t take the occasion to drown me.”
He made a sound of disapproval. “When will you learn to trust me, Bryony?”
“When hell freezes over,” she murmured, as he moved to the end of the tub and his hands cupped her head. “And don’t call me Bryony.” She felt faintly uneasy, but she had no idea why.
“What do you prefer?” he murmured, pouring water over her hair, carefully keeping it from her eyes. She closed them anyway, relaxing into the sensation. Her injured arm was throbbing, and she didn’t care, as long as his fingers were caressing her scalp, rubbing the soap into it, threading through her hair.
“Mrs. Greaves will do,” she said dreamily. She could lie like this forever, she thought. Besides, getting out of the tub would expose her body to his critical gaze.
“I like Bryony better.”
She purred as he poured fresh water over her hair, rinsing it. And then he lifted the length of it and draped it over the back of the tub, pouring more water to wash the suds away.
“You’re not letting that water get on the floor, are you?” she demanded suddenly.
“You’re not the housekeeper here anymore, Bryony. But there’s a basin behind the tub for just such a purpose.”
“Very clever.” And then his words penetrated. “Of course I’m the housekeeper here.”
“I’m afraid not. Mrs. Harkins has taken over.”
“Then I must leave.”
This time his snort of laughter was genuine. “And just where would you be going in your current condition? Besides, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Someone’s trying to kill you, and I don’t intend to let that happen. You’re not going anywhere until I can make proper plans.”
“Who’s trying to kill me?” She focused on the most important part of all this.
“I’m damned if I know. Presumably the same man who killed Cecily.” His voice was blunt, matter-of-fact, with no sorrow in it.
She turned her head to look at him. “If you didn’t kill her then why were your clothes covered with blood?”
“Ah, so you’re the one who moved them. You relieve my mind—I was afraid the police had somehow gotten hold of them. My clothes were covered in blood, my precious, because someone took them and dowsed them in it. Presumably whoever killed her.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“You didn’t… don’t know Cecily that well. She’s entirely capable of buying gallons of pigs’ blood to set me up like that. I have no guarantee that she’s not enjoying herself in Paris, laughing at my expense.”
“Do you really think so?”