Page 19

Whatever she meant to say about his interference with Adam died in her suddenly dry throat. His shoulders needed no epaulets. They were quite broad. His smooth skin was marked by tiny white nicks, and one long, thin red line that slashed from under his right shoulder blade down to the band of his trousers.

Heat shimmered in the lazy gaze that collided with hers in the glass. The meaning of Hannah’s words came clear and robbed Lucy of speech.

“You.” His raised hand paused in its scraping of the lather on his chin, like a clock figure waiting for the next second to tick off. Then he shook the foam from the blade into the white, chipped basin in front of him. “Come to scold, have you? Adam’s safe.”

Lucy bowed her head to hide her flaming cheeks. Harry Clare had undressed her and put her to bed. His hands had touched her where no one touched her. Her whole body flashed with sudden warmth at the thought. She tried to tell herself that his attentions must have been swift and impersonal, or at the least not...not other than her care of Adam.

She had forgotten Adam, but there he was in a chair by the fire, dressed and combed, his hands resting on his knees, his head cocked at an alert angle. She crossed the Turkey rug to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“How are you this morning, Adam?” she asked.

“Captain Clare takes a bath every day,” said Adam. “He likes baths.”

Lucy’s face warmed again. A slight shiver passed through her. She stood where the copper bath stood. In that moment he had lain in the tub, his arms resting over the edges, his hands with their long fingers dangling, his head tilted back against the lip, his eyes closed, water beaded on his shoulders, steam rising around him.

“You undressed me,” she said, putting it plainly, sounding him out.

He glanced at her again over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’d return the favor if I needed it.”

“Favor?” The image of him in the tub remained vivid in her mind. He filled her with vast impatience, she who had patiently cared for Adam for years.

“I hope you slept well. Adam did.” He tossed the towel aside and reached for a shirt lying on the end of the bed. He pulled it over his head, and the loose lawn fell into place, shadowing his torso. He had seen her in a similar state.

He fastened the cuffs of the shirt. She ought to be glad he was decent. The conversation had veered away from her complaint, and she sought to bring it back. “Adam is my responsibility.”

“Along with everything else, apparently.”

“Yes, and I’ll thank you to return my keys.”

“Such a lot of brass to carry. You must feel the weight of them with every step.”

“I can manage. You think I’m not up to running an inn.”

He shook his head. “You needed sleep, not another night of watching over Adam.” From the table by the bed he gathered up her ring of keys, hefting them in his palm and handing them to her. Their fingers met with a brief shock.

Lucy went to tie the keys to her waist, but found the ribbon had been cut. She dropped them in her pocket, where they made a heavy bulge. When she looked up, she saw her missing book lying on the table beside the bed.

“You took my book, the book my friends gave me.”

“You left it behind. You’d better read it, you know.” He picked up his scarlet regimental jacket from the end of the bed.

She laughed. “I’m not likely to hunt a husband any time soon.”

Lucy watched him shrug into the jacket. She had dressed Adam countless times and never thought about shoulders or backs or waists. “Don’t you have ordinary clothes?” The war was long over, yet he still wore his uniform, and under it his scars. “Is England at war?”

“She still has enemies.” He smiled grimly.

“And you fight them?”

“Every day.” He shrugged. The scarlet coat hung loose around him. The shirt hung over his trousers. Lucy felt oddly rooted to the carpet and realized he was waiting for her to leave. She had things to do, whatever he thought of a woman’s capacity to manage an inn.

“I’ll take my book, thank you.”

He moved with lazy ease to retrieve it and hand it to her. This time there was no meeting of their fingers. “You have more neighbors nerving themselves to propose, you know.”

“Propose? To me? Who?”

“You turned Wittering down, but John Simkins will have a go at it. You’re a woman of property. Fair game. You haven’t noticed the new coats and combed hair?”