Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(68)

And then, too, she would’ve had him all to herself.

He turned back to the dresser without a word, picked up a flannel cloth, and rubbed it with soap. He raised one arm, the muscles flexing on his back in a rather spectacular show, and washed himself along that side and under his arm.

He dipped the cloth into the basin and repeated the performance on the right side as well before finally glancing over at her just as she shivered again.

Maximus scowled and dropped the cloth into the water. He stoked the fire, making it flame high. Then he strode to his wardrobe and plucked out a lap rug, came to her, and arranged the plush folds over her legs.

“You should’ve told me you were cold.” His hands were infinitely gentle.

“Your water is cold,” she murmured. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

He shrugged. “I find it bracing.”

“Then bring your cloth here.”

He looked at her curiously, but did as she bade.

She took the wet cloth from him. “Turn around and kneel.”

He arched one brow, and she remembered that she was ordering a duke to kneel before her. But he wasn’t just that anymore, was he? He was Maximus now.

Maximus, her lover.

He turned and lowered himself. The fire burnished his broad back, highlighting muscle and sinew.

Slowly she drew the wet cloth between his shoulder blades.

He bowed his head and arched his back.

She took the hint and rubbed the cloth gently over the damp hair at the top of his neck before drawing the cloth down his spine.

He drew in a breath. “I was fourteen when they died.”

She hesitated only a fraction of a second before she smoothed the cloth back up his spine.

“I…” His shoulders moved restlessly. “I didn’t know what to do. How to find their killer. I was angry.”

She thought about a boy deprived of his parents in such a shocking way. “Angry” was probably a great understatement.

“I spent the next two months doing what I had to. I was the duke.” His shoulders bunched and flexed. “But every night I thought about my parents—and what I would do to their murderer when I found him. I was fairly tall for my age—nearly six feet tall—and I thought I could defend myself. I started going into St. Giles at night.”

Artemis shuddered at the thought of any boy—for a fourteen-year-old youth was still a boy to her mind—going into St. Giles after dark, no matter how tall he might be.

“I had a fencing master and I considered myself quite good,” Maximus continued. “Still, it wasn’t enough. I was badly beaten and robbed by a footpad one night. I got two black eyes. Craven was quite angry.”

“You had Craven even then?”

He nodded. “Craven had been my father’s valet. I suspect he made inquiries. The next day as I lay in bed, I had a caller.”

She drew the cloth gently over his shoulders. “Who?”

“His name was Sir Stanley Gilpin. He was a business partner and friend of my father’s—not a particularly close one, actually, as I found out later.”

“Why did he visit?” She’d finished washing his back, but she was loath to stop touching him. Gingerly she stroked a bare finger over the bunched muscle at his neck. It was so hard.

“That’s what I wondered,” he said, swiveling his head a bit. She couldn’t tell if he disliked her touch or not, but he didn’t protest, so she laid her hand against his skin, feeling the heat. “I’d never met him before. That first day he stayed an hour, talking about Father and other, more inconsequential things.”

“First day?” she questioned softly, daring to place both hands on his back. “He came back?”

“Oh, yes.” He bowed his head and arched his back into her hands, like a giant cat urging her to stroke. “He came back every day for the week that I was abed. And then at the end of that week he told me he could train me so that I wouldn’t be beaten the next time I went to St. Giles to look for my parents’ murderer.”

Her hands stilled for a moment as she heard his words. On the one hand, she was glad someone had cared enough—been strong enough—to train him so he wouldn’t be hurt. On the other, he’d been only fourteen.

Fourteen and already preparing for a life of hunting.

It seemed wrong somehow.

He pushed back against her hands in silent command, so she began rubbing over his shoulder blades, feeling the thick flesh bound over strong bone.

He sighed and his shoulders seemed to relax a bit. “I went with him and found that he had a sort of training place—a big room in his house where there were sawdust dummies and swords. He showed me how to use the swords not as a gentleman, but as the footpads might. He taught me not to fight fair, but to fight to win.”

“How long?” she asked, her voice choked.

“What?” He started to look over his shoulder, but she dug her thumbs into the ropes of muscle on either side of his spine. Instead he groaned and let his head fall.

“How long did you train like this with Sir Stanley?” she whispered.

“Four years,” his voice was almost absent. “Mostly by myself.”

“Mostly?”

He shrugged. “At the beginning, when I first came, there was another boy, a sort of ward of Sir Stanley’s. Actually I suppose he was a young man—he must’ve been eighteen at the time. I remember that he fought ferociously—when he wasn’t reading—and he had a dry sense of humor. I rather liked him.”