Inwardly Drake cursed. A flaw to the plan that he’d not considered. He never shared his back with anyone—not because he was ashamed of it, but because the dragon was private, personal. He owned it. It was part of him.
“Will it wash off?” she asked softly, with awe. “If I scrub it, will it disappear?”
He stared at the far wall, realizing that a portion of her was captured in the oval mirror hanging there. Had she ever looked so innocent, so disarming? He didn’t like her looking like that. It made her approachable, made her appealing. He did not want her appealing. He wanted her to see him across a ballroom floor and remember that she had once washed his back. He wanted her blushing when he sat across from her at a dining table. He wanted her stammering when next she sought to remind him of his nonexistent place in Society. He wanted to snap at her to get on with washing his back. Instead he heard himself explaining far too reasonably for a man experiencing such inner turmoil, “No, the ink is beneath the surface.”
“How did it get to be there?”
“Needles.”
The door clicked shut. The rustle of skirts. She sank from view and he didn’t want to envision her going to her knees. Blast it. The bathing chamber created an intimacy he’d been fool enough to misjudge. He had anticipated it affecting her, not him.
“Did it hurt?” she asked on a breath that was more whisper than substance. Her fingers lightly touched his lower nape—where the top of the dragon’s head curved—stealing his voice, his thoughts, his purpose. They felt like fire, and it was as though once again something was being scored into his flesh, only this time it was burning, branding. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forget the feel of her fingers against his flesh.
He fought to regain his control. “Yes.”
The solitary word was all he could manage, but manage it he did. He supposed he could relish some victory in that. Even if his voice sounded rough and foreign to his own ears.
Her fingers traced the outline of bridge, snout, mouth before trailing in a featherlike touch across red, blue, yellow, black.
“Why fire? Why does it breathe fire?”
To destroy my demons.
Not that he was about to confess that. For once he had the upper hand with her and he wasn’t about to give it up. He didn’t want to provide her with any fuel that she could use against him when her memory returned. No, this one day was about him obtaining the means to put her in her place . . . eventually.
“So I can use it to frighten small children.”
She laughed. Not the haughty caustic sound with which he was so familiar, but a sweet tinkling of bells at Christmas. Oh, he’d heard the sound before when she was with Grace . . . No, this was different, unguarded. He’d never heard the like coming from her. Had she never revealed her true self, even to Grace? “I don’t see you being that unkind.”
Outlining the spread wings now, she seemed to slow her movements as though in reverence. He could hardly blame her. When he was a lad, a dragon had caught and held his attention, had changed his life.
She stopped where the water lapped at his ribs. The dragon reached down to his buttocks, but he supposed reaching her hand into the water to touch it would create a familiarity with which she was not quite ready to deal. Hell, he wasn’t certain he could handle it.
“It’s beautiful, and yet why would you put art upon your back?”
He considered telling a lie, but when her memories returned, he had little doubt that she would be able to guess a good part of it.
“I was an orphan on the streets. A woman took me in. Her husband had a dragon tattooed on his back. When I first saw it, it frightened and fascinated me. I was a bit of a scamp, prone to misbehaving. He painted a dragon on my back, initiated me into the order of the dragon, and told me the woman was the queen of the dragons and I must always obey her. He used watercolors that eventually washed off, although it was some time before I realized it, as I couldn’t see my back and wasn’t prone to standing in front of mirrors. But by then, I had learned that I gained much more by behaving than misbehaving. I wanted to stay with them, because of the dragon. Because of them, I am a different man than I might have been otherwise.”
“But you said it was painful. I suspect it was agonizing. Why go through that?”
“One must always know pain in order to appreciate beauty.”
“That’s rather morbid. Are all your thoughts so dark?”
“Not all of them.”
“Does it hurt now?”
“No. However, it must be washed.” Reaching for the soap, he grabbed it and handed it back. He sensed her hesitation rather than saw it, and wished he had angled the mirror so he could view her. He heard her swallow, felt the slight tremble in her fingers while they skimmed over his palm as she took the soap from him. Now his palm knew her touch and he found himself balling his hand into a fist as though he wanted to hold on to the sensation.
He couldn’t blame her for trembling. Touching him was one thing. Washing him brought with it a more complex and deeper level of familiarity. Wrapping his hands around the lip of the tub, he leaned forward to give her easier access.
And felt the ball of soap gliding across his shoulders. Not at all what he wanted. He wanted soft. He wanted silk.
“It’s better if you use your hands,” he told her.
“How do you suppose the soap is moving if not with my hands? With my mind?”
The tartness in her voice made him smile. The dragon’s allure had obviously dissipated; unfortunately for him, hers was merely increasing. He should send her on her way, but he was enjoying this on many more levels than he’d anticipated. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Whatever instincts seem to come to me, they don’t involve washing you.”
He peered over his shoulder. “Shall I turn around and demonstrate?”
He couldn’t see all of her, but he saw enough to know she paled. Her memories might be questionable, but she seemed to know what was inappropriate.
“No need. I’m certain I can deduce the proper way to do it.”
Taking satisfaction in her answer, he faced forward. Waited. Expectation heightened his senses. He didn’t bother to analyze why he wanted her touch. He only knew that he did.
The water splashed as her hands dipped into it. He heard the faint sound of soap slipping over skin, imagined her small hands rubbing at the hard ball. His body tightened, stiffened in anticipation. When was the last time he’d anticipated a woman’s touch with a burning need that threatened to reheat the water? Why was he anticipating hers?
Not because he desired her, because God knew he didn’t. But because of what her actions portended, the knowledge that would always be between them. The weight of it would keep her nose from jutting into the air, her chin from lifting.
Then the touch came, so different from her earlier exploration of the ink. Not a finger outlining, tracing, but fingers and palms, pads and heels, perhaps even a grazing of wrists. Slowly gliding over his shoulders, pressing into his muscles as though she were as fascinated with them as she was with the tattoo. It took all his resolve not to flex his shoulders, bunch his muscles.
Not to lay his head on his knees and simply glory in the enticing caress.
He’d expected her to be quick about it, but she took her time, skimming her hands over skin that suddenly seemed incredibly sensitive, incredibly aware. He barely noticed when he washed his own body. It was a task to be completed. A vigorous scrubbing intended to remove the filth from his flesh and his heritage from his soul. Her touch was lighter, more tender, and yet it seemed to cleanse more deeply.
He swallowed hard. He’d not expected that.
Over his shoulders she went, again and again and again. In circles, figure eights, up and down, down and up, side to side. A corner of his mouth hitched up as he realized she was stalling.
“As lovely as that feels,” he said, striving hard to keep the laughter from his voice, “my back encompasses more than my shoulders.”
“Yes, well, they just seemed particularly dirty.”
Not likely when he bathed every evening, and sometimes in the morning as well, depending on the night he’d had. Definitely tomorrow morning. He wondered if he should tell her before he left so she could ponder on it through the long hours before his return. Or should he just surprise her with the chore the moment he arrived?
Surprise. Surprises were always fun. Her eyes would widen, her mouth would part . . . it would all be so delicious. Besides, he didn’t want her to consider leaving while he was away. He needed to ensure she felt safe so he would find her here when he entered his residence shortly after dawn.
“Should I use a brush?” she asked, and he heard the hope in her voice.
“No, the dragon requires a special touch.” He didn’t know why he’d said that. Her touch wasn’t special, but even as he thought it he knew it to be a lie. He’d never had the caress of a lady, an aristocrat. He’d limited his sexual explorations to commoners, to those whose roots mirrored his. He wasn’t about to taint a lady.
In spite of the fact that his family and their friends treated him as an equal, he knew he wasn’t. Not really. He was his own man, proud of his accomplishments, but he didn’t have a history of service to the Crown, men of noble birth, women of strong character behind him. He didn’t come from noble stock. He came from pain, blood, murder.
Her hands left him. He heard the swishing of the soap. She would be appalled when she learned the truth. He tried to envision the satisfaction, the sight of her stunned expression, but then she was touching him again, and all he seemed capable of was becoming lost in the sensations of silken skin over slick flesh. She possessed no calluses, no scars, no rough edges. Her hands were velvet, softer than any linen he’d ever had next to his flesh.
Women had stroked his back, of course, but it happened in the shadows and they were coarse, with him for one purpose: pleasure. Theirs more than his. They had no interest in leisurely exploring what he had no interest in revealing. Theirs was a mating with him giving far more than he received in an effort to wash away the sins of his father.
Her fingers dipped below the waterline, stroking the dragon’s lower tail, stroking his buttocks. A groan, deep and feral, escaped through his clenched teeth.
Her hands flew out of the bathwater, raining droplets over his shoulders, over the floor.
“I think I’m finished,” she said, a slight quaking in her voice that matched the tremors cascading through his still form.
He had not expected to be so affected by her, didn’t want to be. But he was as hard as marble, aching with hunger barely leashed. He suspected when he unclenched his hands from the sides of the tub, he was going to discover impressions of his fingers in the copper.
“Yes,” he ground out. “You can see to my dinner now.”
The door opened and closed so quickly that he was surprised she’d had time to pass through it. He submerged himself. He required cold water, frigid water, ice. A trip to the Arctic.
Good Lord, he could still feel her touch. How was that possible? She was gone, but it was almost as though she had brought the dragon to life. It was breathing fire, not at all happy that she’d left without providing him with surcease. He didn’t even like her. It was pure lust. A man’s carnal needs. Any woman could have brought him to this state of agony. It had been far too long since he’d had a guest in his bed.
Too much work and not enough play. He could remedy that easily enough.
He came up out of the water, searched for and found the soap. Scrubbing at his body, he fought not to envision her touching all of him in the way she had of bringing each nerve ending to life. His arms, his chest, his legs, his feet—his feet! When had he ever cared about his feet? Cupping him, squeezing—
Once more he dropped beneath the water. This little prank or whatever the devil he wanted to call it was supposed to affect her, not him. It was madness. It was the water, the slickness that increased the intensity of the sensations. That was all.
The need rampaging through him had nothing at all to do with her, specifically.
So why the hell did he feel as though he were lying to himself?
Phee could hardly countenance that her legs had managed to carry her into the kitchen, where she practically fell into the chair, trembling and weak. At first she had been mesmerized by the dragon, the splendor of it spread across the broad expanse of his back, wings unfurled, fire licking at his side. The faded colors that she imagined had been quite brilliant when first applied: red, blue, green, yellow, various shades.
But then she had touched him and become fascinated with his velvety skin and the steel muscles beneath it. Had she ever caressed anything quite so firm, so utterly masculine?
She must have if one of her duties was to wash his back, but of course she had no memory of it and that seemed almost a sin. To not recall the pleasure of stroking her fingers across the breadth of him, the length of him. She had wanted to move beyond his back and explore every inch of him, his chest especially. Feather her palms over the sprinkling of hair, press her fingers into the defined muscles. Touch to her heart’s content.
If she were not a maid, she suspected she might be a light-skirt. She came up short at the thought. Had she lived another life? Was that the reason she was out at night, the reason she ended up in the river?
Chuckling low, she buried her face in her hands. No, that did not suit at all. She knew that. That sort of wickedness was not she. And yet she could not seem to get the sight of his nakedness out of her mind. She quite relished it being there, quite enjoyed thoughts of examining it more closely.
She shoved herself out of the chair. He would be here any moment. He couldn’t find her in this state of want. She needed to prepare his dinner, something quick that would have him leaving as soon as possible. Then she could settle down somewhere and scrutinize these thoughts, try to make sense of them, put them in perspective.
Spotting the cheese beneath a dome of glass, she decided that would do nicely. She placed it on the table along with some bread. She considered searching the icebox but she didn’t want to face the knowing lifeless eyes. He would have to fetch his own milk. She placed a plate, knife, and fork on the table.
Hearing footsteps, she glanced up and stilled. He stood in the doorway, nearly filling it, properly dressed in black trousers, white shirt and cravat, dark blue waistcoat, black jacket. So little skin visible now, only his face and hands. Yet he seemed more dangerous, more alluring.
She realized she’d only seen him bared or in shirt and trousers. She’d not considered that he would appear so in control, so powerful, so confident when he was fully clothed. A gentleman. A man of worth.
The hair that had been unruly was tamed. The previously shadowed jaw was sporting no whiskers whatsoever. He should have looked more civilized and yet he didn’t.
“No pheasant?” he asked, his voice sounding light and normal, as though he were unaffected by what had happened in the bathing room. But she had heard the growl of a wild beast that was tired of being caged.
“As I stated earlier, I don’t know how to prepare it. I thought cheese would suffice for tonight.”
“I’m afraid I require something a bit more substantial. I’ll eat at the club.”
“They serve food there?”
“They serve every sort of indulgence there.”
“And you manage it.”
“Quite well.”
She interlaced her fingers, hard, until they ached. “You’ve probably told me all about your work before.”
“We’ve never discussed it. I assumed you preferred not to know.”
He hovered in the doorway, not approaching her. She didn’t know if it was because he sensed her discomfiture after bathing his back or if he experienced a bit of it as well.
“When may I expect your return?” she asked.
“Sometime after dawn. My hours are determined by how things go at the club throughout the night.”
“Are there troubles?”
“Sometimes.”
She didn’t know why it bothered her to think of him having to manage difficult matters. He was her employer. Theirs was no doubt a very impersonal relationship. “You’ll bring the letters of reference?”
It happened so quickly that she couldn’t be certain but she thought he flinched.
“Yes.”
“What do I do while you’re gone?”
“Sweep out the hearths, arrange wood, make my bed. I’m certain if you’ll simply look around, you’ll figure out what needs to be done.”
Cleaning out the hearths brought images of soot and ash. “Where is my apron?”
He became incredibly still, a living statue. “I don’t believe you have one,” he finally said.
“That’s rather odd, isn’t it? A housekeeper without an apron?”
“I don’t pay attention to your clothing. You’re merely a servant. Perhaps you misplaced it.”
Merely a servant. The words stung, angered her. She shook her head. “I’m still not understanding why none of this seems familiar. I don’t recall doing any of these chores. They’re not second nature like the waltzing.”
“I can’t explain your condition, but I must be off. Enjoy your evening.”
With that he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway. She almost went after him. Enjoy her evening? He expected her to work. How was there ever any joy in labor?
This was such an odd circumstance. It made no sense. Still, as she’d gone to the trouble to set the table, she took a chair and nibbled on cheese and bread while pondering her dilemma. She wasn’t going to sweep out the hearths. She wasn’t going to clean anything until she remembered doing it.
If Drake Darling wanted his house properly tended, then he was going to have to be a bit more forthcoming with information. She didn’t know why she had the distinct impression he didn’t truly want her to regain her memories. What was it he didn’t want her to remember?