“Something wrong, my lady?” one of the maids asked.
“Not at all!” Then she said more softly, to the book, “How did you get in there?” But she knew how. She’d not paid attention while packing, had grabbed fistfuls of things from her trunk and shoved them into her satchel without looking, and her trunk was exactly where the book had landed when she’d been interrupted reading and tossed it across the room.
“Everything’s ready, my lady,” a maid said. “Is there anything else you need before we leave?”
“No, thank you.” The door clicked closed, and Emma eyed the book as she disrobed, eyed it as she made her way behind the fire screen to step into the tub. “Oh, bother.” She snatched it up before stepping into the water and setting it carefully on the nearby chair where the linen towel lay. She soaped her arms and legs, ignoring the book. But why ignore it if she’d brought it all the way over here near the bath? Because there was no reason to read it. That book was about decadent pleasure, and this trip was about a very important task—rescuing a young girl gone rogue.
But… Emma soaped her neck and shoulders, sloshed them clean with water. But Lady Felicity might need advice of a particular nature when they found her. And Emma would need information to know how dire the situation was.
Carefully, she dried her hands on the linen. And carefully, she picked up the book. She dropped her head to the back of the tub and opened the book, holding it close to her face.
She began to read.
For knowledge. To be prepared for any eventuality.
Certainly not for the heat spilling across her limbs.
Not at all for the squirming, needy sensation pooling between her legs.
And not because she could see a certain duke’s face in every line of the book. Words in black ink and white paper, but Samuel’s eyes in storm gray and lips in kissable red. Her breasts ached, and she clutched the soap in one hand, holding the book still with her other as she soaped her breast, brushing against her nipple.
And moaned.
What in heaven’s name was this curling through her body? What was this?
Desire?
Yes, it must be because her body screamed demands, needed fingertips, and she tried to obey, palms skimming and fingers exploring. And it felt… it felt…good.
But not enough.
What a wicked thing to be doing, touching herself. Everywhere. But as the book slipped from her grasp and tumbled to the floor, she did not rightly care. She skimmed her hand along her body and thought of the man who, for now at least, called himself her husband.
Chapter Seventeen
Samuel had not stayed away quite half an hour, but he’d begun to worry about the window. There were other exits out of the inn. He couldn’t see every door from the dining room. But from the window… anyone boarding a coach or mounting a horse would be within view. Besides, the maids and footmen he’d spoken with had not seen a young girl who looked like Samuel or a man who fit the descriptions given of any of Felicity’s suitors. Hopefully, Trent, Helston, and the others would discover who the gentleman was Felicity ran off with.
Hopefully, Samuel would find her before that.
He climbed the stairs and at the end of the hall put his ear against the door. Quiet. Should he knock? What if she was sleeping? He’d wake her then, and he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to give her what she needed. Trent thought he’d promised to marry Emma, but Samuel couldn’t promise that. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But she had to know first what risks she’d be taking. As if they hadn’t already taken a risk. Perhaps stepping onto the road with him was proof enough—she’d risk it all to stand by him.
Damn. He felt selfish as hell to ask it of her. She wanted a meandering sort of courtship, after all, to be shown before words were fitted to actions.
He raised his fist but then unfurled it, opening the door instead of knocking so he didn’t wake her if she was sleeping. He paused, the door open only a few inches. The squeaky hinge. That might wake her, too. What in hell was he supposed to do? He needed the window, but he’d also rather fling himself out of it than disturb her rest, and—
A moan shattered the silence. Low and throaty, it caught him up, heated his lungs and twisted his belly. Another moan. And not one of pain or distress. Only one feeling tore a moan like that from a woman’s throat.
To hell with squeaky hinges. He pushed the door open wide—squeak!—and shut it silently behind him. But she didn’t seem to hear, though she’d not yet succumbed to sleep. Across the room, a fire screen had been set up to shield the tub from view, but the flames behind it cast the tub and a woman’s head, neck, shoulders, and knees into a perfect silhouette. Emma’s perfect silhouette, the long line of her neck sloping up to the tip of her chin, her elegant profile angled to the ceiling, hair piled high atop her head, cascading in ringlets on the outside of the tub, lips parted, another moan slipping out. One of her knees lifted higher above the edge of the tub as her shoulders sank below it. Her leg unfolded, toe pointing toward the ceiling, and she gave a husky laugh as she rolled her foot at her ankle. Curvaceous calf, delicate ankle, sloped arch—proportions he ached to admire. With his hands. With his lips.
He should leave.
He couldn’t. Not if the entire army tried to pull him away. He’d fight tooth and nail, send a thousand blades flying into the air, straight at hearts, to remain where he was, watching Emma bathe, watching her enjoy her body.
As he enjoyed it.
No denying it. His cock had leapt to life at her first moan, and now it was rock hard and uncomfortably confined.
Another moan became a grumble, as she said, “Oh, I need. But what the devil is it? Something… something.”
