Water pattered to the floor, puddling around them. He glanced to the screen. Obviously dismissing that as a possibility, he carried her to the bed and set her down on the edge.
She gingerly slid back so her leg was stretched out. “I’m soaking the bed.” She plucked at the edges of the towel plastered to her.
He moved to the chaise and snatched the pashmina blanket. Returning, he extended it to her. “I’ll take the towel. You can pat yourself dry with this.”
Holding out the blanket for her to take when she was ready, he turned sideways, affording her some privacy, and she should have been relieved for that. Appreciative even. But she was beyond placing any value on her modesty or virtue around him. She didn’t want him to turn away from her. She stared hard at his too beautiful profile, the slash of his eyebrows, several shades darker than his golden blond hair, the sharp cut of his square jaw.
Then the thought came that maybe he had no wish to see her naked. Maybe that was why he had been avoiding her. Perhaps she repulsed him—just as she had repulsed Richard. The possibility slid through her sourly, settling sickly into the pit of her stomach.
She desperately didn’t want to think that. And yet if that was the truth, the new Annalise wouldn’t run from it. Emboldened with that thought burning through her, she peeled back the towel from her body and let it hit the floor with a loud smack.
Air swept over her, chilling her flesh. Her ni**les rose and hardened. She gazed at his profile, willing for him to look at her with something that was revulsion or even apathy. A deep hunger grew to a simmer in her blood as she willed him to look. For emotion to crack his implacable features. For him to react to her nakedness. To her. For him to feel the same attraction she felt for him.
Several more moments passed, stretching interminably until he glanced down at her, undoubtedly expecting her to be covered up by now, the pashmina blanket up to her chin. Anything except to be lying exposed on the bed like some kind of offering.
Her gaze locked with his. Her arms held her up from the waist, palms positioned flat down on the bed just behind her. She had no idea if it was a flattering pose. She didn’t risk a look at herself—only him. He filled her vision, her world in that moment.
“Cover yourself.”
The words could have stung if there wasn’t a tremor in his voice. A slight wavering that belied the rejection.
She smiled slowly, hoping her action—or inaction—would be words enough.
He extended the blanket another half inch closer. She flicked it a glance, dismissing it, and looked back at him.
She didn’t read revulsion in his gaze. There wasn’t that flash of disgust she caught sight of on Bloodsworth’s face that last night. Of course, there wasn’t anything in Owen’s deep blue eyes. Just the usual fathomless dark. And yet his features looked strained, his jaw locked tight. A muscle feathered beneath the flesh of his cheek—a telltale sign that he wasn’t unaffected. Instinct told her this was a good thing.
“Anna?” His voice was all exasperation. The blanket bobbed in his hand. “What are you doing?”
This time she spoke, her annoyance surfacing. “I would think that was obvious.” She moistened her lips, letting her tongue trail her bottom lip just as she had seen other women do. The girls she apprenticed with had done that on more than one occasion when they wanted to entice a man. Certain male customers with plump pockets frequented the shop. They stopped in to purchase some frippery for their wives or sisters. Many a time she had found Agathe or Sally in the back, in the storeroom or in a closet, skirts hiked indecently while a man fondled their thighs.
She stared at him, trying to communicate with her heavy-lidded eyes: Trying to seduce you. Only it occurred to her that she wasn’t doing it very well if he was prodding her to cover up.
He stepped forward, draping the blanket over her, the backs of his fingers brushing her bare shoulders. Heat sparked on her skin at the contact, and from the way he quickly pulled back, she knew he must have felt it, too.
“I don’t think this is a very good idea.”
She leaned forward and seized his hand, her fingers circling around his wrist and holding fast, desperate to keep some form of physical contact between them. “And why not?”
His gaze drifted to her hand, lingering there for a moment before looking back to her face. “For one thing, you cannot even stand.”
“I’ll be on my feet next week. Besides . . . I don’t need to stand.”
He shook his head, his dark gold hair tossing in a way that forced the longing inside her to grow to an actual physical ache. “I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of injured young women in my care.”
“Then a week from now you’ll have no qualms?” She cocked her head, enjoying herself a tad too much. “Your honor could be appeased then?”
“I did not say that. Have you also forgotten you have not fully recovered your memory? How do you know you’re even unattached? What if you are married?”
The question hit its mark. She schooled her features to reveal nothing of the sting his words caused.
“I’m not,” she quickly replied, the lie tripping easily off her tongue. She hardly felt like a wife. Especially not the wife of a man who threw her away. A shudder rippled over her at the idea of being married to him. That she belonged to him. It might be a matter of legal record, but she was not his wife. She was not married to that monster.
“Or perhaps your heart is attached—”
“It’s not,” she countered, that not a lie at all.
“How do you know?”
“Because I would feel it here.” She placed a hand over her heart. “I would know.”
He snorted. An indulgent smile played on his lips. “You’re a romantic.”
“We are consenting adults. What’s wrong if we—” She considered her words. “—amused ourselves?”
He released a breath, his expression sobering once again. “You don’t know what you want.”
“I do.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re confused.”
She sighed. “Don’t patronize me. I did not get pulled from that river yesterday. My faculties are fully intact and functioning. I may have lost my memory but not my intelligence.”
“Then I trust that a good night’s rest will restore your good sense.”
Her cheeks burned. “So if I wasn’t injured . . . if you knew my name to be Miss Anna Smith, then you would have no qualms?” Whether he desired her shouldn’t matter so much. But it did. It would mean that he wanted her. That she didn’t repulse him. And after Bloodsworth that mattered more than ever. To be wanted, desired.
He opened his mouth, but words seemed to elude him.
With a grunt, she released his hand and started to pull herself back on the bed away from him, disgusted with him. With herself. What about her failed to entice a man? “If you could, please send Mrs. Kirkpatrick along. She can help—”
With a growl, he grasped her shoulder, stopping her from further retreat. His knee came down on the bed beside her. The mattress dipped, and she slid a bit closer whether she willed to or not.
He stabbed a finger at himself, directly in the center of his chest. “Don’t look at me as though I’m something beneath your shoe because I insist on doing the right thing and not using you as you’re begging me to.” His gaze raked her, scathing and thorough as though she were still n**ed and not covered with the blanket he thrust upon her.
“I’m not asking to be used!”
“Oh, come now. You’re not asking for anything honorable from me.” He thrust his face closer, his body radiating anger.
She pushed at his chest with the base of one palm, her other hand clinging to the blanket at her throat. “I never heard of a man taking such offense over a little flirting. Go. Away.” She bit off each word, her face flushing hotly with shame.
“Oh. You are accustomed to flirting in this manner, then? Has that memory returned to you?”
His eyes glimmered with accusation, and she knew then, without a doubt, that he doubted her story. He doubted her, and yet he allowed her to remain with him. Was he toying with her?
“You’re hateful,” she fairly growled. “I cannot even fathom why I entertained the notion of you . . . of me . . . oh!”
“Nor I.”
She inhaled a deep breath through her nose
Indeed. What had she been thinking? She certainly shouldn’t crave his touch. Or kiss. Or anything else. That had been a colossal miscalculation on her part. He clearly preferred not to sully himself.
Suddenly, irrationally, she wanted to scratch at his face looming so closely over her, all stark, handsome lines and tempting shadows. She shoved at his chest yet again. “Remove yourself.”
His jaw hardened and he closed his hand over hers. She could feel the thud of his heart against her palm.
“You are hardly in a position to issue commands.”
And the truth of that statement only angered her further. To be vulnerable, weak . . . it was everything she had vowed to never be again. And yet here she was again. She curled her fingers into a tight fist and dug her nails into her tender flesh.
Their gazes held, locked. The air surrounding them crackled with tension. She couldn’t help thinking that he resembled some kind of dark angel risen to tempt her to sin. Considering she had done her damnedest to tempt him, and to no avail, she could have laughed at the comparison.
“Get off me,” she repeated, lifting her head off the bed, bringing their faces closer. She didn’t know how she dared to challenge him. Naked, leg broken, she was hardly in a position to make demands.
“Oh, now my nearness offends you?” His deep voice mocked. This close, his eyes gleamed with a light in the centers, almost like the moon off inky waters. “What a capricious nature you have.”
“You’re impossible,” she whispered.
“No more than you. Moments ago you threw yourself at me. What’s next? A marriage proposal?”
She laughed. True, genuine laughter. “Is that what you think? Marriage? To you?” She gulped a breath, stifling her laughter. “That would be akin to not being married at all. You’re never around and when you are you hardly speak. You certainly won’t touch—”
The rest of her words were cut off by his mouth. They slammed over hers roughly. She cried out, but the sound was lost, consumed in those ravaging lips. Their teeth clanged briefly in a fierce collision. It was nothing like the sweet, gentle kisses she had fantasized about with great anticipation those many weeks before her wedding.
Nor was it anything like the quick, chaste kiss Bloodsworth gave her after the completion of their vows. It was savage and relentless, punishing. She whimpered and pushed at his chest, and that must have affected him because suddenly his lips gentled on hers.
He nibbled on her bottom lip sweetly, almost apologetically. When he stroked the bruised flesh with one swipe of his tongue, everything inside her shook alert, awake and alive and hungry.
His mouth lifted off hers slowly. Feeling him slipping away and loathing the loss of his warmth, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back down over her, mashing his lips to hers.
This time she kissed him, nibbled and sucked at his bottom lip in the same manner he just did with her. When she set her tongue to him, licking, he groaned against her. His hands fisted in the blanket covering her, tugging it lower in the process. Cool air wafted over her bare shoulder.
He was careful with his weight, straddling her, his knees on either side of her hips. Meanwhile she let her hands roam, reveling in the freedom to touch him. Her fingers drifted from his shoulders to his neck, his jaw, his face, and then back around to tangle in his hair.
“Anna,” he breathed into her mouth the moment before his tongue touched hers. A chill chased over her at the sensation. Goose bumps broke out over her skin as his tongue began a dance with her own, licking, tasting, stroking. Her belly tightened, grew heavy and aching.