Chapter 12

She blinked. "A bath?"

The first time he'd called her to his cabin on board the Calypso and explained that he knew she wasn't Lady Celia, he'd outlaid what he was going to do about it. In the light of that, what was a bath? Nothing.

"I like to be clean."

"I see."

If Flint was only going to ask for that a bath she could oblige. Although it was ridiculous she was at his mercy like this. Why should she? She wasn't buying his freedom for him to have a bath. But equally, if she didn't let him, what else might he demand? A bath? A bath, it was then. Fine.

She walked to the door to call Susan to fill the copper tub. She'd no other servants though, did she? What if he knew that? A bath? Odd, when he was so keen to get to it, he'd offered her the heir right there on the staircase yet now he procrastinated. Was that to pay her back? File her nerve endings to tiny heaps? Or was it something more?

What if he didn't mean to help her at all? What if he intended to escape? She'd have to fall back on Malmesbury or worse. A bad idea now they knew she had a past and she'd have to face them with the shaming knowledge that she'd allowed Flint Blackmoore to escape. No. A bath it was but the tub must come in here. She just wouldn't look at him in it.

"Well, why don't I call Susan and we'll bring the tub in here?"

"That's very nice of you, putting yourself out like this." He walked to the chair and eased down.

"It's no trouble."

How deeply did she regret saying that? By the time the tub had been lugged up the stairs and maneuvered through the door, which she daren't take her eyes off for a second, by the time her back felt broken and her arms the answer to that was to the bone. Look at him sitting there. Like a king. Not even his boots off.

And the tub still needed to be filled.

It took some effort.

"Madam, are you sure about this?" Susan asked on Fury's tenth trip up the stairs with the copper kettle and the bucket. She wouldn't very well ask Susan to do anything she wouldn't do herself.

"I've no damned choice." Fury had no breath either. Thank God Malmesbury and the others had gone. She'd die on the staircase if they saw her like this, with her hair like a bird's nest and her dress falling off her shoulders. "He's all I've got. Keep standing at that door. Make sure he doesn't leave the room. Do you hear me? I may need another kettle-full."

Susan smiled knowingly. How dare she imagine Fury was so desperate to keep him for his sexual charms that she didn't want to let him out of her sight? Or maybe Susan was silly enough to imagine his lazy smile was for her alone? A dumpy middle-aged servant? Couldn't she see how despicable he was?

"I think you're doing very nicely." Flint eased his long legs out. "I never took you for the athletic type."

He didn't deign to help in any way. Why should he, now he'd made his first demand? If he met her with that lazy, insinuating stare once more, she'd tip the boiling contents of the kettle over him. In his lap would be preferable. But then? Then she'd have to fall back on Malmesbury.

"Oh, you'd be surprised at the type I am."

It took some effort not to gasp, but she managed. When he'd had his bath and he'd obliged her, it would be over for tonight. She could lie down and forget she'd come all this way to come nowhere at all.

He pulled off his boots at least he didn't expect her to do that for him and set them to the side of the chair. Then he tore off his stockings.

"You don't have to stay." He raised his head. "Seeing as you have all these fancy rules. I wouldn't want for you to break them so soon."

As ever his unbridled impertinence knew no bounds. She bit her lip. She'd sooner not stay. But leave him here alone where he could climb out the window, or rifle her drawers? Not the ones she was wearing either. No. She set the kettle down.

"Oh, not at all."

He stood, his long mouth carving tiny grooves in his tanned cheeks. Then he peeled off his shirt. Deliberately.

He knew his body looked every bit as good as when he had stridden the deck, stripped to the waist, for all he was seven years older. And he wasn't the least embarrassed to show it too. No. As the deceptively lazy grin said, if ever a man wanted a woman to look at him, if ever a man thought he should be looked at it, it was this damned specimen.

She smothered a yawn.

His deft fingers dropped to the buttons of his breeches. Her glance became a stare before she could stop it.

All right, fair enough. Flint's well-sculpted body still had the power to fill her with longing. Only the teeniest, tiniest bit. Only if she allowed it.

No. What she was going to do was empty the kettle. She grasped the handle, watched as the boiling water streamed into the copper tub.

"Susan you may go. James has enough water now."

"Yes, madam."

The door clicked shut. After a few seconds she heard him amble toward her, at an even slower pace than usual. Daring her to turn her head no doubt. Never mind rot, first she'd fry in hell. His stark naked proximity was not going to suck any air from her.

"Is the water fine? To your liking?"

"I've not stepped in yet. I just want to make sure there's not a shoal of piranhas swimming about beneath these waves. A man never knows, with you."

"Now, James, why would I do that? I want to ensure the conception of the Beaumont heir. Not have anything gnaw off the one thing that might conceivably give me that."

"How come Thomas ended up in the cellar, if you wanted to do that?"

Give Flint the chance to sneer by telling him everything that had happened?

"None of your damned business."

Anyway until she heard the splash of water that meant he'd stepped into the tub, why not keep the bastard guessing?

"If you don't want the bath ?"

"No, it's fine." He stepped in. "You've no idea how a simple thing can make a man feel good about himself, so long as the water's not burning."