The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(40)

“Why?”

“I need assistance.”

“I can assist you.”

Sophie shook her head. “Not in this.”

“Which is?”

She flushed. “My lord, I cannot bathe with you.”

She didn’t mean for the words to tempt him. Christ, she was covered in remnants of her adventure—blood and gin and dirt and God knew what else. And of course baths required a lack of clothing. But for some reason, the quiet implication of her nudity had him hard and unsettled in an instant.

She was to be married, dammit.

“I can help you,” he snapped, knowing he was being unnecessarily coarse.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

She looked at him as though he was an imbecile. “You are a man.”

“I thought I didn’t count.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “You count in this.”

He should do as she asked. Go get the girl and leave the two of them to it. But the past days had him feeling contrary. “She’s not available.”

Sophie blinked. “Where is she?”

“In the room I have paid for, at your request.”

“You deserved that for pronouncing us married without my permission.”

“I was to wait for you to regain consciousness before defining our relationship?”

“You could have told the truth,” she said.

“Really?” he asked, “You think that would have helped your situation?”

She sighed, and he knew he had won. “It’s the middle of the night and the girl is caring for two other children,” he said, matter-of-factly. “If you want a bath, you’ll have to accept my help.”

She pursed her lips at that, her gaze settling longingly on the steaming bath. “You mustn’t look.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” It might have been the most obvious lie he’d ever told.

Somehow, she believed it, nodding and throwing back the coverlet to step out of the bed. She came to her feet, the top of her head at his chin, and he resisted the urge to help her across the room. “How do you feel?” he asked, hearing the gravel in his words. He cleared his throat.

“As though I’ve been shot, I’d imagine.”

He raised a brow. “Clever.”

She smiled. “My shoulder is sore, and I feel as though I’ve been asleep for a week.”

He moved to the fire burning beside the bathtub and hung a kettle over the flames. “More tea when you’ve bathed,” he said, returning to her. “There’s food as well.” The words summoned a low growl from her, and her hands flew to her stomach. Her cheeks turned red, and he smiled. “I take it you are hungry.”

“It seems so,” she said.

“Food after the bath. And then tea. And then sleep.”

She met his gaze. “You’re very domineering.”

“It’s a particular talent.”

“What with you being called King.”

“Name is destiny.”

She ignored that, moving past him to the high copper bathtub. She turned back. “Thank you.”

He resumed his place against the wall, arms crossed, watching her carefully. “You’re welcome.”

She reached down, her long fingers trailing in the hot water as she sighed her anticipation. The sound was like gunfire in the room—pure, unadulterated pleasure. It was delicious.

King stiffened. He was not interested in the lady’s pleasure.

If only someone would tell his body that.

If only someone would tell it that it was not interested in the way the borrowed nightrail pulled across her breasts, the way it bunched above her hips and clung to the curves of her hips and thighs. Nor did it have any interest in where else those fingers might find purchase.

King dragged his gaze up to find her staring at him.

He coughed. “Aren’t you going to bathe?”

She raised her brows. “As soon as you turn your back, yes.”

He didn’t want to turn his back. “What if you need assistance into the bath?”

She shook her head. “I won’t.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You might.”

“Then you shall be mere feet away. Ready to act as my savior, despite your better judgment.”

He scowled at that and did as he was told. Watching her undress would have been the highest form of masochism, after all, as he had no intention of touching Sophie Talbot. Turning his back was best.

Except it wasn’t.

It was sheer torture.

He sensed his mistake immediately, the moment she began to remove the shift, the sound of fabric sliding over skin, the quickening of her breath as she navigated her wound, the little, nearly inaudible sound she made as she must have moved her arm in an uncomfortable way.

“Do you require assistance?” he asked, the words harsh in the quiet room.

She was silent for a moment before the soft reply came. “No.”

He cleared his throat. “Be careful of your arm.”

“I have been.”

Past tense. Christ. Her shoulders were bare.

The moment the thought came, he heard proof of it, the hiss of fabric as she pushed it over her hips, the sound rhythmic enough to make him think she was moving them to ease passage. Undulating.