Page 7 of My Fae Lady

“You can’t show up at a wedding ceremony this way,” she insisted, dogging my steps. “They’ll see straight through our plot. This will only work when I’ve made a proper gentleman of you.” Giselle cut me off and backed me into the corner. Once she had me trapped, she rose up on her toes and tugged on a lock of my dark hair, folding it between her fingers, inspecting me with shrewd eyes. “Yes! I think we’ll start with a bath and a haircut. Once we’ve scrubbed the forest off you, cleared the canvas so to speak, I’ll have a better idea where to go from there.”

My lip curled up in a grimace. “I’m not letting you anywhere near me with shears.” I sidestepped her, making again for the doorway of the study. This time I was certain the room had lengthened.

The exit vanished before my eyes, immediately replaced by the entrance to a spacious bathing chamber with a sunken tub large enough to fit an army regiment, the tile a deep green. Steaming water that smelled of lavender wafted in the air.

“See there,” she said smugly. “Even Rook Manor agrees you need a bath. When we’re through with you, you’ll look and act like a man worthy of marrying into the line of the Third Duke of Plantagaia, Marquess of Alswood, Earl of the Hidden Spires.”

Master of Rook Manor. It wouldn’t do to make her irritating relatives, or this Mr. Hilferty fellow, suspicious, I reminded myself.

“Fine,” I grumbled, crossing into the washroom. “I’ll take a bloody bath, but I’m still not letting you anywhere near me with shears.”

Under her watchful eye, I stripped off my coarse waistcoat and unfastened my suspenders.

“Thank you,” Giselle said.

“You’re welcome,” I said reluctantly.

“I was talking to the house. Not you,” she said, carrying a tray of soaps and oils over from the counter. It had appeared there, conjured by the manor’s orderly magic. The tray had hooks she used to secure it to the sides of the sunken bath. She hovered nearby, fingering the long handle of a horse-hair brush and a matching comb.

“I know how to take a bath, Lady Giselle,” I ground out, untucking my shirt from my trousers.

Her gaze narrowed to suspicious slits. “Do you, though?”

I rolled my eyes at her so hard I almost hurt myself. “This part I can do on my own.”

She ignored me, pouring a vial of oil into a larger glass as I unbuttoned my shirt and shouldered out of it. Then she added the concoction to the hot water, and soapy bubbles rose to the surface.

“Climb in,” she insisted.

“Do the Seelie have no concept of privacy?”

Her eyes went pale yellow, the color of surprise. “Oh, I didn’t realize the Unseelie were shy. I won’t look until you’re in.” She put her back to me.

“We’re not shy,” I bit out. The nerve of this woman. In response to the challenge she presented, I shucked off my stockings and boots, trousers and drawers, and climbed into the tub without another complaint.

The water was hot, almost too hot. It took me a moment to adjust, and then I let out a sigh of contentment. Admittedly, this was a far superior method of cleansing than a swim in the cold river. At the sound of my relief, she turned to me, brush and comb in hand brandished like weapons.

She rounded behind me and her breath caught.

I knew immediately what had caused it, and a heat that rivaled the hot water flooded my face.

Giselle moved back to the side of the bath and laid down the brush and comb on the tray with the soaps and oils. She wiped her hands off on her skirts and worked her throat. “The scars on your back . . . where your wings used to be,” she said, no hint of pity in her voice. Were there any, I would have banished her from the room.

“What of them?” I demanded, voice smaller than I wished it to be.

“The wounds are deep. The calluses are cracked and thick and red and irritated. It’s clear that they hurt . . . But they don’t have to hurt, Lord Sylvan. I would like to tend to them, if you’ll allow it.”

“Hm. What do my old injuries have to do with wearing your fancy clothing? No one at the wedding will see them.”

She folded her fingers together in front of her. “No, that’s certainly true. Then again, if we don’t take care of them now, how would you tend to them later? Can you even reach them?”

No, I couldn’t. And I’d been asleep a long time in my tree to avoid the pain of them, letting the injuries fester further, but I was accustomed to the dull, deep ache. I searched her eyes, trying to understand this offer. I thought she was a pragmatic woman. How did this kindness serve her aims?

I shifted closer to her, sending a wave of water sloshing against the side of the bath. “These injuries are not for the faint of heart,” I warned. “They’re deep and layered with filth. Were I mortal, they would have killed me ages ago—they should have killed me, but here I am. If you dare start, you’d best not be squeamish.”

She dropped her chin, lowering her head to meet my gaze head-on. “Do I look squeamish, Lord Sylvan?”

She most certainly did not. Her eyes had gone a shade of deepest, most determined indigo with flecks of ice and ocean blue. She looked as fierce as an ancient shield maiden.