Ironheart. Emily French

      She went to the doorway and clapped her hands. A clutch of servants came in bearing a huge wooden tub, which they set in a corner behind a screen, away from the draught, and filled with successive pails of steaming water. Others appeared, carrying towels and fresh clothing, which they placed on a low table that stood close to the tub.

      Leon went and stood by the fireside, warming the shivers and the aches of travel from his bones as he waited for the servants to finish their business and leave. With eyes that burned from exhaustion, he watched them all gather by the tub, and Brenna told them she would help him with his bath. She breezed past them to his side.

      “If you’ll just allow me—”

      “Desist, woman!” Servants scattered. He barely noticed. “Stop that at once!” He brushed in vain at her helpful hands.

      “What is wrong?”

      A gasp sounded behind. Brenna clapped her hands, stifled the servants somewhat, and shooed them out.

      “I’ll not have a husband who scares the maids witless with all that grumpiness. Now if you’ll be so kind—” She flung up her hands.

      That brought him to a halt. His ears were going. Had he heard that? “Husband?”

      She turned back and stood very close to him, but this time standing rigid, with her arms folded under her breasts. Fine tremors moved the tendrils of her hair, as if a qualm of fear shook her courage. “That is what I said.” Her face was calm and as still as a brushed porcelain mask. Bland as if it were a foregone conclusion. As if none of it were uncertain.

      “What brought that to mind?”

      “You are always answering a question with another question!”

      “Just a peculiar topic to bring up now,” he said.

      “Not at all. With all the political talk going on, ’tis natural to be thinking of the future, but we can discuss it later.”

      “You’re crazy!”

      “My father’s word was reckless.”

      “Perhaps he was sparing in his praise.”

      She spoiled the exquisite mask by squinting through a dark waterfall of hair at him. “You are merely evil-tempered because you cannot bear the fact that you, my stalwart rescuer, have mislaid your armor.” Her voice sparkled with hints of laughter.

      “You carry on like a raucous crow.”

      Brenna flushed, but her eyes were steady. “And you have a temper like soured wine.” A firm hand planted itself on his chest. “You will get a fever if you stand there naked much longer.”

      Leon stiffened, but her hand did not move. Her eyes touched his chest, his flat stomach and hips and his…

      He glanced down. His eyes grew very wide and still. His heart jumped and started hammering. While he’d glowered at her, she had industriously peeled off the linen undergarment.

      Brenna standing there dressed and he—

      He felt his groin grow heavy as thick blood pooled in his lower belly. His reaction must be blindingly obvious, he thought. A cold feeling spread all down his back into his legs. If a seasoned warrior reacted in this way, pity help her poor silly young suitors. His teeth gritted. His lips peeled back from his teeth.

      “You need not stay.”

      “Do you want the maids to see you like this?” Her tone was blank, void of cues, but her breast rose with each breath and the way she avoided looking at him, as if her interest in him were all his fault, was highly amusing. She gestured to the water invitingly.

      Leon bit back a retort. It would do no good. He could think of nothing to say that would not make matters worse. His body betrayed him. Surrender, for now, was the only strategy.

      Still frowning, he climbed in, yielding to the temptation of a hot bath in a tub that was big enough to hold a man of his great stature. The water was so hot his toes tingled. Gingerly, he sat, glad of the debilitating heat of the water. He let go a long breath and looked up from under his brows.

      “Well, lady, for what do you wait?”

      She slapped a big bar of brown soap into his hand. “Wash yourself with this. I’ll get some oil.”

      Brenna hurried to the carved chest, as if suddenly appalled at her boldness. There was an awkward silence while she unstopped a bottle and added a few drops of sweet-smelling oil to the water.

      Leon suspected she was rarely so tongue-tied; any girl who looked like this one did would have learned at an early age how to make the most of her assets. He rubbed his chin with both hands, feeling the stubble from several days’ growth scratch the skin of his palms. No doubt he stank of sweat and grime and horse. He truly needed to bathe, and he could not deny it would be pleasant to have the woman tend him.

      He held out the bar of soap. “Come, wash my back.”

      Her blush deepened. She pressed her hands together quickly, nervously. Bending over, she took the soap from his hand and rubbed it against a linen cloth. She touched him hesitantly, as if not sure of where she should begin or exactly what she should do. The hands were soft and gentle and the hot soapy water against his skin felt delicious. Her fingers traced the steel tendon that ran down the back of his neck to his spine. He felt the thick muscles of his back bunch at her touch.

      “It’s not too hot, is it?”

      “No.”

      She moved her foot. Her knee was not far from his shoulder. The out-flung length of one leg. Her slender ankle and the pointed toe of her shoe. The innocence of her pose created the eroticism of the moment. Intensifying so that he felt the stirring inside himself. Not merely his groin. All over. He was suffused with longing. His manhood was stiff and quivering. As if it were his whole body.

      “May I?” Her hands massaged his neck and the back of his head and the massive muscle that joined his head to his shoulders. She stroked his hair. Pain rushed up his temple, rang like hooves drumming clay. He could not help the small shudder that ran through him. She jerked her hand back. “You’ve got a lump on the side of your head the size of an egg!”

      “I was a trifle careless,” he said, keeping his voice light.

      She pursed her lips, as if she wished she could say otherwise. “That may be true, but your hair still needs a wash,” she said, her voice holding mild reproof.

      He ducked down under the surface long enough to count to twenty, and to want air. He broke surface again. For a heartbeat his eyes locked with hers.

      “Do what you want. I won’t stop you.”

      Brenna gnawed her lip, edged closer and let go a breath. “I will try not to hurt you.”

      He tipped his head back while she washed out his hair, combing through the snarls with gentle fingers, trying not to feel anything, remember anything, wonder anything.

      “Close your eyes,” she ordered, running a soapy finger over each eyelid. Her hands were light, moth-delicate, on his forehead. “Why do you shave your beard?”

      “It makes me remember who I am, what I’m for. It keeps me from growing too proud.”

      “What a load of nonsense!”

      “Then the truth it must be. It’s hot. It’s red. It itches,” he mumbled.

      Her laughter was sudden and heart-deep, a ripple of pure notes. “With golden hair and red beard, you’d look like a great marmalade cat.”

      “Another reason to shave!”

      Brenna followed the contours of his wide shoulders down his arms, where the water glistened among red-gold hairs. He sighed and felt the tension ebbing out of him. He melted back against the rim of the tub. Steam rose, hanging in the air a moment before drifting upward. She added a few more drops of scent to the