Page 26 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
Lydia ducked her eyes away from his gaze, unwilling to let him guess how much his sly suggestion both embarrassed and intrigued her. Instead, she fashioned her gaze on the ties of his shirt as she worked to undo the knots. Still, she could not deny, if only to herself, that there was a small part of her that was curious.
The knots came undone, and she helped Laird Ranald out of the shirt before having him lift his arms so she could see the healing stitches on his side. “They look well healed… you may wish to have Evelyn take the thread out, after you have finished bathing.”
Feeling oddly daring, she slid the tips of her fingers lightly along his side, feeling for heat or puffiness that might indicate an infection. “No signs of any infection, my laird.”
“Good.” His hand dropped to the belt of his kilt, and Lydia hurriedly stepped away. She busied herself with checking the temperature of the bath, adding another kettle of water from the pot over the fire for that purpose, and tossing in some of bath salts as well, to foam and provide some cover. She thought she heard a chuckle, but then came the welcome sound of a body settling into the water.
She turned back to find Laird Ranald settled into the bath, everything of a delicate nature mercifully hidden from view. “My laird.”
“Let me soak a moment, lass. I’ll wave ye over when I want me back scrubbed.” His head tipped back, giving Lydia anunobstructed view of his tanned throat and his well-formed shoulder and chest muscles.
“Aye, my laird.” She dipped her head in answer, then made a point of attending to small tasks around the room - adding more water to the pot, seeing that the towels were properly laid out, and collecting fresh clothing for him to wear after his bath. She couldn’t help sneaking looks at the man relaxing in the tub, but she did her best to keep her focus mainly on her duties as a maid.
Finally, Laird Ranald sat up with a groan, his hand waving in something that might be interpreted as a summons. Lydia hurried over. “My laird?”
“Another bucket o’ water, an’ then I’ll be wanting me back washed - the pine scented soap, I’m thinkin’.” He gestured.
“Aye, my laird.” Lydia hurried to follow his commands. “Do you prefer the softer cloth, or the sponge?”
“The softer cloth. The sponge is fer me hands an’ arms, or fer a hard day’s labor.” He gave her a sideways look.
“Every laird and lady has their own preferences, my laird.” Lydia responded. “My lady preferred a sturdier sponge - she said it made the skin feel cleaner and glow with health.”
That is even almost the truth - though I was the lady, not someone doing the serving.
Laird Ranald shrugged, then sat forward a little further forward in the tub. Lydia carefully applied the cake of soap to the wet skin, applying a generous layer before she took the cloth and worked it into a fine lather. Once his back was covered with a fine layer of suds, she leaned in and applied careful pressure to scrub the broad back in front of her.
It was such a strange feeling. She wasn’t technically touching the laird’s skin, and yet, she was acutely aware of the nude form before her, and how thin the barrier of cloth was between them. As she worked, she could feel the contours of the muscles on his back, the way every muscle flexed with his breathing and every shift of his weight. It was an intoxicating feeling and she knew she was blushing from the roots of her hair to the center of her chest.
She tried to distract herself by thinking of other things. There were scars patched across Laird Ranald’s skin, small thin lines that looked like stab marks, and more irregular marks that she had no idea what might have caused them. There were also a number of very faint lines that looked as if they might be whip marks… she tore her thoughts away from that idea, shuddering to think that anyone might do such a thing to any other living being.
Then there were the tattoos. They linked across his skin in a tracery of black lines, elegant knotwork connecting to images with meanings that she had no hope of divining. Together with the scars, they told a story, and one she wanted to know more with each passing day. She couldn’t ask - dared not ask - but for a moment, she allowed her hand to linger on the images, and on the scars, tracing them with gentle compassion.
“Ye’ve good, steady hands. Wouldnae mind if ye washed more o’ me.” Laird Ranald stretched his arms out, until his wrists were resting on the edges of the tub. “Me arms, for example.”
Lydia swallowed hard. “If ye wish, my laird.”
Tentatively, she moved to pick up the soap again, to run it across the tanned skin of his arms, from shoulders to wrist - first the right side, then the left. The pronounced swell of his upper arms, then the graceful taper of his forearms, the well-defined lines of muscles in his wrists and the back of his hands when he flexed them, it was all mesmerizing in a way that Lydia had never experienced. Even the dusting of fine, pale hair across the back of his arm was intriguing.
Washing his hands for him felt incredibly intimate, and it made Lydia’s belly clench and the muscles flutter, leaving her feeling tingly and shivery underneath the skin. There was a tightness in her lower abdomen that she couldn’t explain, and it deepened every time she touched Laird Ranald.
“Legs and belly next.”
Lydia started and almost dropped the washcloth. She’d become so focused on what she was doing, she’d almost forgotten that Laird Ranald was conscious and watching her every move.
She was mortified at the very suggestion he’d made. That he would even think she might touch himthere… but she was his maid servant, and perhaps that was another duty of a personalmaid servant? She wouldn’t have thought so, but then, she had so little experience.
She would have thought that their being of opposite sexes would have prevented such duties, but if she was wrong, and it didn’t matter, then she would have to find a way to manage, no matter how much it discomforted her. She was steeling herself to make the attempt when Laird Ranald spoke again.
“Ye blush easily, I can tell even without seein’ yer face properly that ye must be the color o’ a rose.” There was no mistaking the amusement in Laird Ranald’s voice when he spoke. “Ye’re a tentative lass, an’ ye act as if ye’ve nay experience with things a personal maid or manservant would ken. Here, give me that.”
He took the cloth from her. “I’ll be wantin’ tae wash me hair. Make sure there’s enough water fer it, while I finish up.”
Lydia turned away, grateful to be spared any further embarrassment. The water in the pot was low, so after a brief word to Laird Ranald, she left to get another half a bucket. By the time she returned, he had resumed his seat in the tub, and the suds of soap on the water obscured any sight of things it was improper for her to see.
Washing hair was something she knew how to do, even if Elswith had usually helped her with hers. And at least Laird Ranald’s hair was much shorter than her own.
She tipped a pitcher of warm water over his head to dampen the tousled blond locks, then helped him massage the appropriateconcoction into his hair. Once that was done, she guided him to tip his head back, and poured water carefully over his head to rinse the mixture from his locks, pouring multiple pitchers until she was sure that nothing remained. “Shall I comb it for ye, my laird?”
