Chapter 13
Would it work? Rachel placed her hands on her hips. A week of labor had gone into her project. Her masterpiece was complete. A maid scurried in, depositing an armload of towels, soaps and fragrance oils to stock the new bathing chamber. Rachel shooed the curious maid and workmen away, locking the door behind them. She bit her lip. The initial test had to be performed alone.
A bronzed cistern filled with water had been positioned to the rear of the kitchen fireplace. Cook tended the duo-functioned fire that allowed her to heat the cistern water and to cook the meals for the day. Due to the Duke’s insistence and largesse, Rachel had improved her earlier pump design. A kitchen boy, employed to work the copper and elm chain pump, stood at the ready. She tapped the pipe, sound waves, traveled down the installed conduits to the kitchen, signaling the pumping to start. She held her breath. Please work. Please work.
Crackle. Glug. Whoosh. Like magic, water sluiced into the tub from the blacksmith crafted, copper spouts. She clapped her hands together, pure joy erupted from the bottom of her toes, bubbled in her stomach to the top of her head.
What a shame Anthony was not there to share in her triumph. But, he had been warned away and everyone had been sworn to secrecy until she had worked out any flaws. Her pride was at stake. He was taking it very bad, like a bear with a thorn in its paw, complaining no one was helping him in the lab. The cook had even caught him snooping in the kitchen.
How she missed his strong arms about her, wanting him morning, noon and night. How many times had she fantasized kissing him, smelling his hair, the touch of his breath on her face…his hands on her? She wiped her damp palms on her skirts. A longing grew like she never felt before. She shook her head. No. Do not yearn for what you cannot have.
When the tub filled sufficiently, she tapped the copper pipe, signaling the pumping to cease. Her footsteps amplified across the marble floor as she walked around, admiring the tempting copper gleaming tub. This was her child, her design. Why not try it out? Should she? Rachel swished her hand through the warm water, the temptation drawing on her like the earth’s gravitational force. She glanced at the window, the door, and a smile formed when she touched the water again, and a small moan escaped. In seconds, she unfastened her dress, undid her laces, and took off her stockings.
Her dress fell to her ankles in a soft hush. After pinning up her thick hair, she stepped into the tub, lowering herself, and allowed the fragrant water to lap about her shoulders. At last, she picked up a cake of lavender and lemon balm soap and smoothed the satiny bar over her skin. The scent wafted, lulling her as she rested her head against the tub. How she wished she could stay here longer. A lot longer when she thought of Anthony and their passionate kisses.
Her heart sank. In a short time, she would voyage to Lisbon, Portugal, a neutral port for American and British ships. Her three months were over. Ethan would pick her up for the long voyage back to Boston. Aunt Margaret and the Duke had begged her stay. But the only thing more inconceivable than leaving was staying. And the only thing more unbearable than staying was leaving. To watch Anthony court and walk another woman down the aisle? The inevitable was intolerable. To think of him in another woman’s arms was unbearable. But his life was hammered in stone, that he must marry, and he needed someone to enhance the ducal title—not a Colonial.
She lifted a leg above the water to rub the soap all the way down to her toes. She tapped the pipe again and the pump started with a fresh stream of hot water. She dropped her head back, reclining against the tub again and closed her eyes, basking in the added warmth.
It was just the barest hint of cool air. A booted heel scraped against the floor. Rachel’s eyes flew open, and she jumped, water sloshing over the tub.
Anthony.
Scrambling upright, her heart skipped a beat, as she tried to arrive at a position of modesty, clasping her arms tight around her legs to hide her nudity. She tapped the pipe to stop the pumping from below to stop the overflow. “I locked the door.”
“I’m a scientist. Don’t you think I could pick a locked door? Clever mechanism,” he praised, although he wasn’t studying the tub as much as he was studying her.
He moved around the tub, his eyes staring down on her from his towering height. Regardless of the soap clouded water, could he see the flesh that shivered just beneath the surface? The notion sent bolts of heat and mortification through her.
“Clever, your use of hydraulics in the ship’s pump to send the water up to the second floor.”
“I left express orders that you were not to see my work until it was completed.”
“But the device is complete and looking very well.”
She narrowed her eyes with his double entendre. “Out! I’m indecent.”
He ran his long-tapered fingers along the edge of the tub. “And leave an exciting innovation without examination? Wouldn’t think of it.”
She sank deeper into the water, her rapid breaths creating ripples in the water. “You are being provocative.”
“Provocative is not helping me in my laboratory. Provocative is usurping my blacksmith.”
So, it was to be a contest of wills. He would not win. Or could he? She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin. Careful. Plan a line of attack. “Blame your sister who corresponded the details of my invention. Your father,” she cleared her throat for emphasis, “requested my engineering talents.” A twinge of guilt followed, pitting father against son. This was war.
He still had the ever-present stubble across his face, giving him a rakish look—a battle he did win with his valet. Sunlight from the stained glass window above haloed him, casting him in an aura of gold. Even his thick ebony hair seemed bronzed as he leaned down to grip each side of the tub. His white shirt tucked into his fawn breeches, clung to powerful thighs, the corded muscles rippling beneath, in what could be considered indecent. Primitive.
He did not fit the formula of a scientist today. No. His posture, awareness, and confidence belied undertones of a man who always achieved what he wanted. She needed a maneuver to get him to leave. This was the other side of Anthony. The dangerous side of him. The side she had seen when he had made Sir Bonneville impotent, and again, when he dispatched the highwaymen. Her heart stopped in her throat. What kind of trouble would he cause her? She clenched and unclenched her hands with the set of events that put her at his mercy.
Never had she felt so exposed and vulnerable.
Think. Get his mind on other things. Break his spell. “Why couldn’t you have waited to learn about my invention?” she asked, proud that she kept any nervousness or weakness out of her voice.
His eyes darkened, with that single-mindedness of his she knew all too well. He was pursuing her, and that glint in his eye was the same one she had witnessed in the laboratory, breaking a large goal into bite-sized pieces. “Interesting your use of hydraulics. Force applied at one point, thrusting a fast flow to another point through a wetted perimeter.”
Her mouth dropped from the innuendo and he laughed, a deep husky laugh while his gaze caressed the ripples of the water with suggestive fascination, and Rachel’s temperature veered violently from chilled to overheated. She felt a sheen of dampness blossom above her lip.
Damn him. How she’d like to wipe that smirk off his face. She pinioned him with a glare, the same she used to sight an arrow. “Don’t you have experiments to complete?”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment and grinned, his eyes lit with intellectual challenge. “In truth, I am taking great pleasure in an experiment of late.”
She choked and drew her knees in tighter to her chest. He had called her bluff. What was worse, he seemed vexingly Cro-Magnon and infuriatingly unconcerned by the strength of her disdainful stare. She swept a wave of water over him, soaking him. “I am not part of your research.”
His gaze swept over her face, then in lazy regard, up and down, a sweeping gesture. Her nostrils flared. He was not as unmoved as he wanted her to believe. She studied him beneath her lashes, and a smile escaped noting with power and pleasure his full arousal, forcefully outlined and tightly bound by his water soaked pants.
“We could discuss the density of water and soap in a solution, hypothesize on how long it would take for the soap residue to sink to the bottom and the water to clear, or are you afraid?”
“I don’t fear you…” Though she couldn’t deny the dangerous thrill hammering through her and the warmth that spread between her legs.
Footsteps. Someone marched from down the hall, paused at the door. Rachel inhaled. To be discovered like this.
Anthony grinned at her discomfiture and mouthed, ‘I locked the door.’
“I’m excited to see your invention,” said Aunt Margaret from the corridor. “Is it finished?”
“Soon,” Rachel croaked. The last thing she wanted was to go home in scandal. “Out!” she mimed with a pointed finger.
“Are you sure everything is all right?” prompted Aunt Margaret. “Do you need any assistance? I can call for help. What did you say?”
Rachel pleaded with Anthony with her eyes. No doubt, Aunt Margaret could not hear her. That meant getting out of the tub and yelling through the door before Anthony’s aunt called the whole house for support.
He rubbed the stubble on his hard jaw, leaned closer until his lips were level with hers and whispered, “I need a quid pro-quo.”
“What?” she darted an anxious glance to the door, but his hand had settled on her chin, drawing her face back to him.
His lips hovered over hers, his breath warm and spiced from cinnamon and coffee. “A kiss.”
“That’s illogical and you are never illogical.”
“Sometimes it’s good to be illogical.” He threw her words back at her.
Rachel wanted to glance away, but couldn’t. The man was like an elemental force, like the waxing of electrical fire, a force so fierce that nothing in his vicinity could turn away or remain unchanged—least of all her.
His lips touched hers, coaxing, persuading, enticing her lips to open. His hands slid down the gunnels pushing her on the back of the tub. Her stiffness relaxed and she melted into him as his tongue twisted, roused, thrust through her like a brand, searing her, having her. Breathing was impossible.
Her hands groped to his chest, firm healthy male flesh tingled beneath her fingertips. To touch him everywhere, to explore every part of him. She wet the silk of his shirt, brushing her fingers over muscle, heat, sighing.
He groaned, making her realize how very female she was. A wild sensuality stirred to life inside of her and she recognized it for the dangerous sensation it was. A wealth of hidden feelings leaped from her, blossoming, exploding.
He drew away. Flames licked at the ice in his blue eyes and an answering heat bloomed deep inside her. Low in her belly, and lower to her womb. The gap between them gave way to chill. Rachel managed to gulp in sweet air, her bosom still heaving.
“To arouse the scientific method.” He snatched the soap.
She widened her eyes. What did that mean?
He nudged her arms away, placing one of her hands on each side of the tub. “Do not move.” He massaged the bar over her breasts, giving distinct attention to first one then the other.
“Look,” he demanded. He wanted her to see what he was doing, insisted that she see what he was doing to her body. He circled and tugged the nipple with the soap. His mouth curved indulgently and a lock of dark ebony hair fell carelessly down his forehead. Lifted and lathered and kneaded. The effect—something of a dream, blurring the lines between reality and imagination.
A crackle of energy burned through the water, the air, and she felt she would expire from suffocation. She lifted a hand to stop him.
A ragged murmur convulsed from his throat. “No.” He returned her hand to the rim.
Her breasts grew heavy, weighted with need and so much more. Oh, how he used this wicked compulsion to gratify his experimentation.
Measure, formulate, test.
Her traitorous nipples glistened from the soap, hardened into tight coral points. She gasped, sensation ripping through her, coursing through her limbs before settling between clenched thighs. Her hips rose. To have him move the soap over her most intimate flesh. Her mouth dropped open. She caught a moan before it escaped, lowered her hips.
Their gazes collided, the fires in his eyes darkened as his pupils dilated.
He knew. He knew the direction of her thoughts. The rogue. Knew she wanted him to touch her and not stop and that knowledge made her hands ball into fists.
To her disappointment, he dropped the soap, dried his hands on a towel, watching her. He took a ragged breath and adjusted his clothing.
“Turn around,” she demanded, and when he pivoted, she rose, water sluicing onto the floor. She wrapped a towel around her and hurried to the door.
“I am fine, Aunt Margaret. Just a few finishing touches.” No one was there. Rachel pivoted, far from being fine. “Your aunt is gone. Leave now, and don’t look.”
She tightened her grip on the towel. He stepped into the hall, gave her one final glance. “You make me feel like a large scraggly dog just unchained, scouring the landscape of the world and baying at the moon.”
She slammed the door in his face.