Dove's Way (28 page)

Her chatter trailed off. He stood tall and sculpted, wearing only a snug pair of woolen drawers. Of their own volition, her eyes traveled the length of him, drifting low until she saw the undeniable evidence of his desire. Her eyes shot up, and she found him staring at her, his gaze as hot as the roaring fire behind him.

“I’d best stoke up the fire,” she choked out, “while you get in the tub.”

He stayed her, his large hand wrapping around her delicate wrist. “It’s hot enough in here already.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. He had the amazing ability to do that to her.

“You are beautiful when you’re embarrassed,” he said softly, the back of one strong finger stroking her cheek.

“If you fancy red, I suppose,” she breathed, thinking of her cheeks.

He took a long coil of her hair. “I do.”

He started to pull her closer, but in the nick of time her senses returned.

“Get in the tub, Matthew,” she said, slapping gently at the hands she wished all too clearly would touch her.

“I ‘d rather kiss you.”

But she jumped out of his reach. “You don’t really. You just want to avoid that hot water. Now get in.”

Glowering, he turned back to the tub, eyeing it dubiously before he pulled the single tie at the waist of his drawers. The wool slipped down, revealing beautifully sculpted narrow hips. Curved and hard muscled. Perfect, no scars. Powerful thighs with golden hair.

Unable to move, she watched as he stepped into the tub, his body rippling.

Water splashed, followed immediately by, “Ahhgg! What are you trying to do, scald me?”

She blinked, then quickly hurried forward to test the water, bringing her inches away from him. They stared at each other.

“The water is fine,” she managed, awkward and uncomfortable. “Stop complaining.”

His lips pressed closed, and she regretted her words. He had done no complaining since the accident.

She sighed, sending up a silent prayer for guidance.

The tub was bigger than any tub she had seen since arriving in America. But even it wasn’t large enough for Matthew. When he sank down, his knees popped up like tents.

“Now what?” he asked.

“You have to soak.”

“What good will that do?” he demanded.

“It will loosen the muscles.”

He grunted in response and sank a little lower until the water lapped at his chin.

“Stay in there for thirty minutes.”

She started to leave, but his good hand reached out with surprising quickness, water flying everywhere as he took her hand. She could see the emotion, the darkness. And when he gently forced her to sit down on the little stool beside the tub, she wanted to weep for this man—for his pain, for his pride. But most of all for his bravery.

“I think I’ll stay,” she said with a crooked twist of her lips.

He gave a single nod of his head and a satisfied grunt, then sank back down and closed his eyes.

He was manageable enough at first, but after that he asked if he was done every few minutes.

With a growl of her own, she pushed up from the stool.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To make you some tea.”

“I don’t want any tea. I’m too damn hot as it is.”

“It’s an herbal tea that will help you.”

He studied her, his jaw set, but this time he didn’t object when she headed for the door.

“You have fifteen more minutes,” she called back. “Don’t get out of there a second sooner.”

In the kitchen, Mr. Quincy had all the supplies ready.

“Where’s Mary?” she asked, looking around.

“I believe she is upstairs in her room. When I inquired after her she said she was tired.”

Finnea knew better. Ever since she had told Mary the poultices and salves they were making were for Matthew, the child had suddenly been busy or tired and couldn’t help. In truth, Finnea understood that Mary was determined to avoid her father at all costs.

Finnea sighed, but she knew she could only deal with things one step at a time.

She gathered the lavender and thyme she had mixed in oil earlier, which she would use on his scars. Then she quickly made tea from wood betony to ease the tension in his body. To reduce inflammation, she took the inner portion of poplar bark and mixed it with grated gingerroot, which would increase circulation.

Holding a measuring cup up to the light, she poured a generous amount of whiskey into a vial, then added the gingerroot and poplar bark. After heating the mixture slowly, she poured the herbs and alcohol into a batch of very thick oat porridge that she would spread over a strip of linen and use as a compress.

Quincy watched closely, then said, “I pray you can make a difference.”

She smiled and patted the man’s arm. “So do I.”

With only minutes to go, she gathered the oil, compress, and teapot on a tray, then hurried upstairs. She stopped abruptly when she wheeled into the room to find him standing there, his back to her, a towel wrapped around his waist, moving his arm experimentally.

She could see him tense, but she knew that he felt a difference, slight as it was. He was not as stiff.

“I’m back,” she said with a grin.

He turned to her with amazingly hopeful eyes, making him look like a child who had tasted the joy of sugar candy for the first time. “Look!” he said, demonstrating.

She leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb, the tray resting on her hip. “Very good.”

His face shifted, and she watched as ha grew determined, then headed back for the bath.

“I should stay in there longer,” he stated.

Finnea’s heart swelled and she chuckled with a wealth of emotion for this man. This amazing man.

But her thoughts were cut off when he got to the tub and dropped the towel from around his hips. Her mouth went dry.

“No!” she blurted out, the pots and vials clattering when she pushed away from the door.

He turned to face her. “Why not?”

But she hardly heard. He stood there, tall and strong, his shaft large and thick even in ease. She swallowed, her stomach fluttering at the sight. In Africa she had seen many men wearing little or nothing. But somehow with this man, in this room, it was different. The broad expanse of his shoulders, the taut, flat abdomen making the flutter in her stomach turn to something else, something like a tight coil.

“No such luck,” she managed. “The water is the easy part. Now I’m going to work the muscles and scar tissue.”

His brow furrowed as he studied her, clearly unconcerned about his naked state. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Have I led you astray so far?”

He moved his arm again as if having to remind himself. “All right. What do you want me to do?”

She pointed to his towel, at which he smiled a devilish smile, before securing it around his hips. Relieved and disappointed at the same time, she poured a cup of tea from a pot. “Drink this.”

He eyed the pale-colored liquid. “Are you sure that’s tea?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

He did as she said, drinking it down so quickly that she was sure he must have scalded his tongue.

“Now what?” he asked, thrusting the cup out to her.

She gestured to a large chair in his bedroom. “I think it will be best if you sit over there.”

If the bath chamber was big, the bedroom was enormous. A fire roared in the hearth, Persian carpets covered a parquet floor. The walls were lined with a rich wood wainscoting, topped by a deep-green, scrolled velvet that stretched to the ceiling. The effect was both striking and manly. And a bed. Giant and very present.

Vigorously, she rubbed a generous portion of oil between her hands, then touched his shoulder. She could feel he was tense. With careful strokes she swept her hands across his bad shoulder, working her way down his arm to his hand. She used one hand after the next, first easily, then gradually with more strength. The more he relaxed, the more pressure she applied. And soon she began to work in earnest.

She tested the range of movement in his hand and arm— minimal when extended at his side, fairly good when extended forward, which further explained his ability to move about in society with little to give him away. How many people walked around with their arms extended like wings?

After determining their flexibility, she slowly exercised the muscles, stretching them only slightly beyond their initial limits.

She started at his shoulder, stroking deeply, then down his arm, again and again, long sweeping motions, and his head fell back against the chair. She moved on to the forearm, dropping down onto a small upholstered stool just to the side of his chair, facing him at an angle, his arm extended between them. He groaned as she swept her ministrations down to his wrist and finally his hand. She worked each finger and his palm.

When she finished, there was an ease in his features that she had not seen since she had known him. She was quiet for a moment, just looking at this man, at his chiseled beauty.

She felt a sharp yearning to reach out and touch his face, run her fingers over his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. Then lower, just to feel, just to savor.

Her lips parted as her gaze drifted to his chest and that tantalizing swath of golden hair that trailed low until it disappeared beneath the white towel.

“Is that it?”

Her head snapped up and she found Matthew studying her.

“Yes,” she blurted. “Now soak again. And drink more of that tea.”

She glanced furtively around the stool until she found a towel to wipe the oil off her hands. Then she started to get up. But Matthew caught her arm, gently yet firmly.

He sat forward, his towel parting midthigh from his casual, all-too-male sprawled knees. Finnea had a fleeting glimpse of hard thighs and lower legs covered with golden hair before her gaze traveled up over chest and chin to meet probing blue eyes looking back, narrowed with emotion.

“Thank you,” he said, having to clear his throat. “Thank you, Finn.” His lips closed hard, and he nodded his head once, sharply, as if unable to say any more.

“You’re welcome, Matthew,” she whispered. Without thinking, she touched his cheek. “You’re going to be fine.”

The veins in his temples bulged and his jaw worked. Then he turned his head, turned his lips into her palm, and her breath caught.

She told herself to leave, to race out the door and never look back. But when he guided her up from the stool with maddening slowness, she went to him.

With exquisite care, he pulled her between his knees, his towel gathering against the waist of her skirt. As he drew her closer, he leaned back, bringing her with him until her body was secure between his thighs, the towel no longer separating them.

He brought his hands up, smoothed the hair back from her brow, and tipped her face to his.

“God, Finn,” he groaned as he brushed his mouth against hers, his tongue seeking the crease between her lips.

The touch was teasing and intense, not a kiss, as his hand ran down her back. He pressed her closer, and she felt the evidence of his thick manhood growing hard and demanding. The tight coil of yearning throbbed deep and low inside of her as she remembered the afternoon he had broken through her control—as she remembered the feel of his tongue slipping between her legs.

His lips grazed the shell of her ear, then lower, trailing down to her neck. She was barely aware when he began working the buttons of her shirt, but when his lips drifted over the delicate skin beneath her collarbone, she gasped.

But she didn’t pull away. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her head falling back, her mouth opening in soundless wonder.

“Touch me, Finn,” he groaned.

And she did, as she had wanted to, in a way that had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with desire. She caressed his neck and shoulders before her hands trailed lower.

He slipped his hands beneath the layers of her clothes. His thumbs pressed against her abdomen, and his ringers curled around her sides. Slowly, he brought them up, over her burning skin, his fingers drifting forward to brush, just barely, over the sensitive peaks of her breasts. Sensation shuddered through her, and she felt the wet heat burn between her legs.

Carefully, he secured his arm around her waist, then came forward, taking her with him until he was on his knees and hands on the floor, she suddenly beneath him, the towel left behind in the chair. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, his lips grazing lower as if he wanted to taste every inch of her. His hand slipped between the opening of her shirt and moved steadily downward until he cupped her breast beneath the chemise.

He palmed the swell, then bent to taste the skin revealed. Running his thumb across one tautening nipple, he looked at Finnea. “Do you understand how much I want you?”

So much. Too much. For now. But what about tomorrow?

She jerked away and scooted back.

“Finn,” he breathed, his eyes still closed. “Don’t do this. Not again.”

“You’re overdoing it,” she said, breathless, grasping at any excuse.

She leaped to her feet, her heart racing unchecked. She would help him. But she wouldn’t love him.

“You need to get back in the tub and soak longer.” She raced for the door. “And remember to drink the rest of that tea.”

Then she was gone, only the sound of his curse left to wrap around her as she fled.

Chapter Eighteen

Finnea dashed out of the house, her cheeks flushed, the insistent hum of blood rushing through her veins at the memory of Matthew’s touch.

Carelessly buttoning her coat as she went, she half ran, half walked down Marlborough Street, then cut into the Public Gardens, the winter breeze stinging her cheeks as she tried to clear her head.

Oh Isabel, she cried silently. Why aren’t you here? Why couldn’t things have been different?

If only she could turn back the clock. If only she could do things over. She pressed her eyes closed. It was the “if onlys” that left her raw and aching.

She slipped on a patch of ice as she took the curving path toward the footbridge.

“Finnea!”

With a start she turned and found Mary racing toward her, the child’s winter clothes wrapped so tightly around her that all that showed was the blue of her eyes.