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But the way they behaved with Andor, it looked like they loved him. It was the same with those who loved Brad, too.

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Nice,” he said, “is certainly not what they are. I do not want to fight my brothers because of a beautiful woman the first night I come back.”

She had heard him right, hadn’t she? Did he think his friends would find her beautiful, too?

He seemed to. She licked her lips, deciding to let it go, afraid to spook him.

“So—” she said and glanced at the bed. “This is where you sleep.”

“This is where you sleep,” he said. “You must be tired. A hot bath?”

Cathy gazed at him, wide-eyed. “Oh, Andor, you have no idea what those words mean to me.”

His eyes darkened, filling with liquid heat. “Take the first turn.”

Did he mean he wanted her to wash alone and to sleep alone? She couldn’t possibly leave without being with him one last time. They hadn’t touched each other after Aethelwulf’s fortress. Should she just invite him?

“I—” said Cathy, but the door opened, and a servant girl poked her head into the room.

“The bathhouse is hot, Jarl.”

Cathy watched him, her heart beating so hard against her ribcage, it might move her tunic. He held Cathy’s gaze for a long time, then looked away.

“Show Cathy where it is. I will wash afterwards.”

“Yes, Jarl.”

Andor turned his back to her and began undressing. Feeling dismissed, Cathy walked out, disappointment and hurt clawing at her heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Andor opened the door of the bathhouse. The room smelled like fresh linen, damp wood, and hot stones. Inside, through clouds of steam that rose from the small mound of stones, he saw the full-bodied, long-legged, golden-haired woman the sight of whom made his heart ache and his blood simmer.

She froze, one foot on the bench, leg bent at the knee as she poured water over it, washing the soap away. The seductive pose made him want to sit right there, under her, and help her wash the sweetest spot of her body.

Her skin glistened with water, her hair in thick, wet locks spread across her shoulders and back. Her stomach had a soft curve to it that he wanted to trace his lips along. Her gorgeous arse was a combination of muscle and flesh under flawless skin that made him hard. The lower curve of her breast, full and delicious, peeked from behind her arm, and made his mouth water.

She watched him, love and hope in her soft gray eyes. Her cheeks were flushed—from the heat of the bathhouse, or maybe because of him. Without a word, he began undressing, and watched with satisfaction as her full lips parted and she straightened, the washing cloth still in her hands.

When he had undressed, he walked towards her, his loins aching, and stood before her, inhaling her clean, delicious scent.

The scent he would never experience again after the sun rose.

He clenched his jaw and chased the thought away. The ghosts stood silent behind the door. Where were they when he needed them?

He lifted his hand and traced one knuckle over her cheek, and she closed her eyes, leaning into the touch slightly.

“No tomorrow,” he said, and she looked at him. “No yesterday.”

Her eyes watered slightly. “No Brad,” she said.

“No Svana,” he murmured. “No ghosts.”

“Just you. And me.”

Slowly, he lowered his head and kissed her, his tongue diving into the plush depth of her mouth. She met him with tenderness, softness, and he sank into her, surrounded by her, as if he were sinking into a hot, bubbling spring, the sensations taking over his whole body at once.

Time stopped as he kissed her. The whirlpool of pleasure swirled faster and faster within him. Then she ended the kiss and murmured, “I want to wash you.”