In front of the fire sat Jeannie in the enamel bathtub, humming softly as she soaped herself. His mouth dried. Her hair was pinned up, exposing the lovely line of her neck and spine. Damp curls clustered around her ears and caressed her nape. Flames from the fire danced, gilding her skin.
He must have made some sort of noise, for she turned suddenly.
Slender body, all ribs, topped with lush little breasts.
"Cameron!" She snatched up the washcloth and made an attempt to cover herself. It didn't cover nearly as much as she'd hoped.
He didn't move. She was his wife.
"Cameron!" she said again, blushing furiously. "A little privacy if you please."
He shut the door, doing his best to hide a grin. Lord, but she looked good enough to eat, all pink and cream and slick and soft. "There now, we're alone." Her blush went all the way down, he was interested to see.
"Go away!" She was half flustered, half cross. Her nipples, beneath the inadequate washcloth were hard and pointed. Aye, she was as aroused as he was. But not wanting to admit it.
He put the flowers down, leaned against the door jamb, and waited. That water was going to get cold, eventually. She was his wife of more than a week and he hadn't yet seen her fully naked.
She glared at him. "Cameron Fraser, you're no' going to stand there watching me in my bath!"
He didn't move. His smile grew.
"It's . . . it's indecent."
He shrugged. "We're married."
She made a small annoyed sound, and turned her back on him in a watery flounce. Water sloshed onto the floor.
"Och, you want me to wash your back, do ye? Why didn't ye say so?"
"No, I don't—don't come any—" she began, but it was too late.
In two strides he crossed the room and squatted down behind her. She smelled delicious, like roses and vanilla. He held out his hand. "Going to pass me the soap and washcloth, or am I going to have to fish around for them?"
She turned her head to stare at him. "You wouldn't."
He grinned and rolled up his sleeves.
"Here then." She tossed the wet wash cloth at his face.
He caught it with a laugh. "Soap?"
She squirmed around, trying to find the soap with one hand while at the same time keeping her breasts covered. An altogether impossible task, Cameron was pleased to note. Lord, but she was pretty.
He soaped up the wash cloth—it smelled of roses—and began to rub her back, firm, long strokes that reached from her nape to her small soft bottom. For the first few minute she sat stiffly, hunched over, embarrassed and resistant, but he kept up the steady soothing strokes and slowly he felt her begin to unwind under his touch.
After a few minutes he unobtrusively dropped the washcloth, soaped up his hands and smoothed them over her silky skin, kneading and caressing.
He was going to have to feed her up; she was so thin he could feel every bone. That wretched grandfather of hers . . . He should have been looking after her, not sending her out on the hills to work like a man, and keeping her half-starved.
He massaged her neck and shoulders and before long she was arching against his hands, letting out small sighs and moans of pleasure, like a little cat purring. He swallowed a groan.
It was all he could do not to snatch her out of the water, toss her on the bed and have his way with her.
"Ohh, that's lovely. We worked hard today," she murmured. "I decided to clean out the cellars this afternoon. I'm a little stiff."
Cameron blinked. He was a lot stiff. But her words jerked him back to reality. He'd promised her two weeks. Dammit. His fingers moved automatically, kneading, stroking, unknotting her muscles.
He wished she would unknot his.
