Page 18 of Much Ado About a Scot

“Wait.”

She turned back, her face betraying a momentary surprise.

“I’d have your company while I finish here.” He reached for the chunk of tallow soap and began to lather himself.

Hesitantly, she pulled out the stool from the desk then sat, twisting her hands against the fabric of her gown. “You did quite well today with the harvest for someone who has never cut grain before.” Her gaze caressed his torso before darting away. “Although you look as though you are used to hard labor of some sort.”

“I suppose I can make a slight exception to our no-questions rule if you’d like to ask me something,” he said lathering the bathing cloth with soap. The lather left the water clouded, obscuring his lower body from view.

“What work did you do before you came to Haddington?”

He soaped his shoulders. “I’ve been a soldier, a tracker, and at times, a scholar.”

She followed the progress along his skin, swallowing roughly. When he delved lower, toward his most male parts, she did not look away, but a pink tint came to her cheeks. Her attraction flared in her eyes and his body ached for her.

Her breath hitched and she looked to the fire. “Sounds as though you’ve led an interesting life thus far. Still, I’m curious why anyone would come to Haddington for work instead of, say, Edinburgh? Haddington is no longer the thriving town it used to be.” Her gaze was on him once more, no longer heated with desire but probing, demanding. “Unless you are hunting witches, then Haddington seems to have more than its fair share for such a small town.”

Xander’s hand stilled. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading. “I came to find work. I found it. That is all.” At least as far as she was concerned. He was hunting Bothwell, a man who had been accused of sorcery during the witchcraft trial of Agnes Sampson three years prior and high treason against the crown.

Determined to turn the conversation and renew the tension that had previously filled the chamber, Xander held the soap in his outstretched hand. “Does your offer of assistance still stand? I’ll be done more quickly if you wash my hair. I can do the rest.” He paused then added, “Unless such a thing unsettles you.”

A flare of challenge brought a returning spark to her brown eyes. “As a widow, you are not the first man I have ever bathed.”

He handed her the soap, then ducked his head beneath the water. When he came up, he pushed his wet hair back and closed his eyes against the rivulets that coursed down his face.

“You’ll have to lean back or else you’ll have soap in your eyes.”

“Aye,” he murmured obediently as she rubbed his scalp with her thumbs, rotating them in circles from front to back, then over his ears. The action was unbearably intimate. He forced his thoughts away from the sensations and his desire to pull her down into the bathwater with him. He should go back to David Graham’s estate tonight now that it was dark, yet it was the last thing he wanted to do as he allowed himself to relax into her hands.

“You mentioned earlier today that it was better not to have roots. Why did you say that?”

He opened his eyes. Every muscle tensed. “No questions about my past.”

“You were in pain when you said it. I’d like to know why. Perhaps I can help.”

“Nothing can help me get over a lifetime of pain and loss.” He watched her eyes widen as his words faded. Angry with himself for letting such personal information slip past his lips, he ducked his head under the surface once more. When he came up, he pressed his dripping hair against his head. The soapsuds foamed across the surface of the cooling water just as they clung to his eyelashes and hair.

“You’ll never get clean like that,” she said, as she reached for a bucket of lukewarm water that sat beside the tub and splashed it over his head.

“Truce,” he sputtered and grasped her skirt, using it to blot at his eyes. “I said I had no roots growing up because my mother moved the two of us from one village to another in order to find work.”

“What kind of work did she do?”

There was a hint of a challenge in the words. If he wanted other things to continue, he would have to answer her. “She was a shoemaker, but as a female in a trade dominated by men, she had to work twice as hard to make a living.”

“Did she take over that trade when your father died?”

“I had no father.” He caught her wrist and held it, pulling her down until she was but inches from him. This close to her skin, he could almost taste her—an intriguing blend of earth and heather.

“Everyone has a father.”

Her creamy skin glowed in the firelight. His body stirred—a burning ache settled in his manhood. If he didn’t have her soon, the agony of wanting her would make him mad. He released her hand. “My father was never in my life.”

“Did you want him to be?”

“When I was young and foolish.” When he’d wanted connections that would never be his, and when he’d longed for a family of his own. But those days were long past. His work for the king was all that mattered now.

Her eyes glittered with the shifting shadows of the fire. “That explains much about your interactions with Jamie, and why your boots are so exquisitely made. They are unlike anything I have ever seen before.”