CHAPTER 34: CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Ines nodded. She walked into the bathing room, the scent of hot, lavender-scented steam enveloping her. She closed the door. She heard the soft sound of Edith’s footsteps retreating from her bedroom.

She leaned her entire, trembling body against the solid wood of the door, as if she could physically hold the rest of the world out. Her heart was a wild drum, beating a rhythm so hard against her ribs that it hurt. Emotional stress. Oh, the doctor had no idea.

The room was warm, the air thick with steam from the bath Edith had drawn. Ines looked at the large copper tub, at the hot, lavender-scented water. It looked like a haven. A place to relax. A place to... to wash.

She reached for the ribbons of her simple linen nightgown, the one she had woken up in. Her fingers were clumsy. She fumbled for a moment, then, with a small, frustrated groan, she yanked the garment over her head, her hair catching in the process. She threw the gown onto the floor.

She stood naked in the steam, her skin cold with a sudden chill. She felt... strange. As if she were in someone else’s body. A body that had been... touched. A body that had felt...

She went into the tub. She didn’t slip in. She almost fell, her knees buckling as she sank into the warm water. It was a bit hot. It stung her skin.

Good, she thought. She needed to feel something else. She grabbed the lye-based soap and the rough sisal cloth. And she began to wash herself.

She washed her arms, her shoulders, her neck. She washed at the place, that sensitive, soft skin, where his mouth had been, where his hot, rough breath had ghosted. She scrubbed at her waist, where his hands, those strong, possessive, knowing hands, had gripped her, pulling her against him. She scrubbed her legs, her thighs. Memories flashed in her mind. The memory of his hand, his touch, his...

She was trying to wash away his smell. The clean, sharp, herbal scent of his soap, mixed with the dark, musky, unmistakably male scent of him. She was trying to scrub off the memory of his taste—the taste of him when he had kissed her, a taste she had no name for.

She scrubbed at her own body, at the slick, secret, evidence of her own desire, the "fluids" that had embarrassed and betrayed her, the proof that she was not, in fact, made of ice at all.

When she was done, the water was cloudy with suds, and her skin was a bit relaxed.

She leaned her head back against the cold, hard rim of the tub, breathing in the steam. Her body was a map of new, strange, and exciting sensations. Her lips were still swollen, her muscles ached, her... insides... felt tender.

Her gaze drifted down. She looked at her breasts, which were pale against the red, raw skin of her chest.

And she saw them.

They were small. Two of them. One on each breast, just above the nipple. They were little, faint, purplish-red marks. Like a small, faint bruise. The color of a pressed rose petal.

She lifted her hand from the water and touched one. It was tender.

A memory, sharp, hot, and undeniable, flashed in her mind. His head, bent. His dark, damp hair brushing her skin. His mouth... his hot, pulling mouth.

"I can’t believe it," she whispered. Her voice was a raw, shocked sound in the steamy room. "Carcel... he actually... he sucked on my breasts."

She stared at the marks, at the undeniable, physical proof that it had not been a fever-dream. He had done that. He had marked her.

She looked up at the ceiling, at the faint, peeling paint. A dizzy, light-headed feeling, one that had nothing to do with her heart, washed over her.

"It was nothing like I had imagined," she said, her voice full of a strange, hollow wonder. "Nothing. At all."

Her novels, her secret, precious, scandalous novels... they were lies. They were pale, thin, childish guesses. She had written about a "fiery kiss." She had not written about the taste. She had not written about the feeling, that sharp, electric, pulling sensation that started in one tiny spot and seemed to set her entire body on fire. She had written about a "man’s touch." She had not written about the strength. She had not written about the hunger she had seen in his eyes.

"Nothing," she whispered again, "like what I have read in my novels..."

Her eyes widened.

Novel...

The manuscript. The new one. The one she had started, full of the same, tired, wrong ideas.

A jolt, as powerful and as sharp as his first touch, went through her. New inspiration came knocking on her door.

She knew.

She didn’t just think she knew. She didn’t just guess. She truly knew. She knew what Doris felt. She knew what her heroine was feeling. She knew, now, what a man’s touch really felt like. She knew the texture of a kiss. She knew the scent of desire. She knew the sound a woman made when she was... shattering.

The block. The terrible, agonizing writer’s block... it was gone. It had been obliterated.

She had to write. She had to write now. Before the feeling faded. Before the memory softened. Before she lost the truth of it.

She stood up, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, spilling onto the floor. She didn’t care. She was a woman possessed.

She grabbed a towel, a thick, linen thing, and wrapped it around her dripping body. She fumbled with the handle, her hands still wet and clumsy, and yanked the door open.

She burst into her bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the expensive carpet.

"Edith!" she called out, her voice sharp, urgent.

Edith, who had been quietly tidying Ines’s discarded clothes from the night before, jumped, her hand flying to her chest. "My lady! You are..."

"Sorry!" Ines panted, cutting her off. "Sorry for calling you suddenly! I need you."

She marched to her desk, her mind on fire.

"Could you prepare writing material for me?" she demanded. "The good vellum. A new quill. A full pot of ink. Now."

Edith just stared at her. Her mistress was half-naked, dripping wet, her hair a wild, tangled, reddish-brown halo, and her eyes... her eyes were blazing with a bright, feverish, almost mad light.

"Ah... yes, my lady," Edith stammered, completely bewildered. "But... but first, let me help you get dressed. I have arranged your attire for the day. The blue muslin is..."

"No," Ines said, her voice flat. She was already at her desk, clearing a space, her hands shaking. "I will do it myself. Later. I don’t need help."

Edith, rooted to the spot, was too confused to move. This was not Lady Ines. This was some wild creature.

Ines turned, seeing the maid’s paralysis. She did not have time for this. She did not have time for propriety.

"Edith," she said, her voice low, intense, and vibrating with a power Edith had never heard before. "It’s urgent. Hurry!"