No blood spurted in its wake. He breathed again.
She rinsed the razor in hot water and made the next stroke, smoothly and deftly, and gradually the tension in him loosened.
Another kind of tension took its place.
She shaved him with concentration, a tiny pucker between her slender winged brows, the tip of her tongue peeping out, curled against her top lip.
Her full attention was on the task in hand, and he was free to observe her as closely as he pleased.
Her skin was creamy, redhead-pale, and as fine grained as a rose petal. Across the bridge of her tip-tilted nose lay a scattering of tiny golden freckles. Most women regarded freckles as a flaw, but these were like cake crumbs sprinkled over whipped cream; they made his mouth water.
Her hips were braced lightly between his thighs, and from time to time her arms, and once her breasts, brushed lightly against him as she moved. It wasn’t deliberate, he knew from the infinitesimal tightening of her mouth when it happened.
He tried not to look down. Her nipples were hard and thrusting beneath her drab gown.
She wasn’t the only one aroused. He tugged more covers over his groin.
She turned his head to shave the other side, and all he could see were her ears, small and delicately made, caressed by a cluster of fine fiery tendrils. He longed to taste her there, to kiss the tender place just behind the ear, to nibble on her dainty lobes, to run his tongue around the intricate whorls and make her shiver and squirm with pleasure.
Without thinking, his thighs tightened around her hips and she jumped and nicked him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said indignantly. “Look what you made me do!” She dipped a cloth in clean water and applied it to his cheek. It came away with a smear of red.
“It’s nothing,” he assured her. “Sorry I startled you.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said, mollified. She dipped the razor in hot water again and resumed shaving him. “Your usual valet is no doubt a great deal faster and more efficient than I am. And I suppose all this sitting up is making you tired.”
He didn’t say anything. Tired wasn’t the problem. Temptation was. Having this delicious armful of woman so close he could touch, smell, and almost taste her. Not to take her in his arms, roll backward onto the bed, slowly unpeel those drab clothes from her, and make slow, delicious love to her for the rest of the day was more than any red-blooded man should have to bear.
Why the devil wasn’t she safely married? Or suitably widowed. A married woman or widow would know what he was about, would understand the pleasure that was there for the taking.
But she was an innocent.
And he might not know much about himself, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t the kind of man who’d seduce innocents.
Unfortunately.
She finished shaving him and handed him a damp towel to wipe off the last of the lather while she took the tray away. He rubbed his face all over, then his neck and the back of his neck, and quickly, while her back was turned, gave his torso and armpits a quick rub.
Cologne water on his cheeks made a satisfying sting. “Thank you. I feel like a new man.”
She smiled. “I’m not sure that you look any less piratical,” she said slowly, her eyes running over his face, “but at least no one will think you a ruffian.”
He captured her gaze and held it. “So, I’m a pirate, am I?” he said softly.
She swallowed but didn’t look away. Her eyes were brandy gold and just as intoxicating. She moistened her lips and his mouth dried. He could feel his heart pounding.
He leaned toward her, intending to pull her down to him and kiss her senseless.
She swayed infinitesimally toward him, as if she might welcome it.
“Maddy,” said a plaintive voice from the doorway. “Isn’t it dinner time yet? I’m starving?”
Maddy blinked, and with a palpable effort, tore her gaze from him. “Ten minutes, John. Tell the others—and remember to wash your hands and face.”
He lay in bed, listening to the clatter of cutlery and low instructions as Maddy supervised the setting of the table by the girls.
“Will I take the tray to Mr. Rider?”
