«Where did what go?»
«The potatoes.»
Wolfe looked over Jessica’s head into the pot. Nothing resembling a potato was visible in the opaque water.
«Last night the potatoes were scorched on the outside and raw in the middle. Tonight they have no middle. No top, bottom, or sides, either.»
«I had no idea potatoes were such perverse vegetables,» Jessica muttered.
«No wonder people leave out milk and cookies for elves. The silly bastards would starve to death otherwise.» Wolfe shook his head and looked at Jessica with open curiosity. «What have you done to the canned cherries? Buried them in salt or soda?»
«It’s unreasonable to expect me to learn in three days a skill chefs spend years learning on the Continent,» Jessica said, keeping her voice level with an effort. «I’m doing my best to be a good wife, truly I am.»
«A frightening thought. What happened to the cherries?»
She grimaced and admitted, «I couldn’t open them.»
«For these small things, Lord, I am damned grateful.»
Wolfe grabbed a potholder, hooked his finger around the handle of the kettle of potatoes, and strode out the back door. Jessica heard a sudden hiss and explosion of steam as he poured the contents of the pot over the smoldering chops.
«Bonappetit, monsieurleskunk,» Wolfe said.
The sardonic words made Jessica flinch. She doubted the wee striped beastie would be any more interested in her cooking than Wolfe was.
Jessica discovered she wasn’t hungry either. Her stomach was in a knot, her throat ached, and her eyes burned with tears she would not shed. She suspected by the hard line of Wolfe’s shoulders and jaw when he stepped back into the kitchen that he was waiting for a sign of weakness on her part. There would be no relenting in him, no understanding of her predicament, no comfort when she tried and failed spectacularly.
He couldn’t wait to be rid of his unwanted wife.
With the last of her strength, Jessica straightened her spine, grabbed two potholders, and went to the stove. The first time she attempted to lift the big soup pot, her arms failed her before the pot was a half-inch off the stove. The pot banged back onto the black metal amid a hissing fury of spilled water. More by chance than anything else, Jessica avoided being burned by the boiling water.
Gritting her teeth, she shifted the potholders and reached for the big pot again, determined to have her hot bath no matter what. Before she had fully extended her arms, she was snatched off her feet, spun around, and found herself facing Wolfe’s furious indigo eyes at a distance of bare inches.
«Are you too stupid to know that boiling water will raise blisters on your aristocratic hide?»
At Wolfe’s words, Jessica’s eyes narrowed until they were splinters of pale blue. For a moment she didn’t answer, because she didn’t trust herself not to scream like a fishwife at him.
«Even you aren’t that stupid, my lord,» she said finally, softly. «Or have you managed to teach a boiling pot to come to your heel like a long-tongued hound?»
«What are you talking about?»
«Getting a pot of water from the stove to the bath,» she said succinctly.
«If you think you can soothe my ire over dinner by offering me a hot bath…»
Jessica opened her mouth to object that it was her own bath she was speaking about, not his, but Wolfe was talking again.
«You’re right,» he continued. «I’ve been looking forward to a bath much more than to eating whatever dinner you cooked. Clever of you to realize it.»
«We non-paragons do our best,» she said between her teeth.
«I’ll remind you of that while you scrub my back.» Wolfe smiled at the furious young woman suspended between his strong, dark hands.
«Tell me, husband dear, are all paragons also Amazons?»
«Willow is only an inch or two taller than you.»
«But broad in the shoulders and thick in the arms?» Jessica suggested sweetly.
«She’s as delicate and feminine as her name-sake.»
«Then how does she get hot water to her bath — one delicate demitasse at a time?»
«Paragons don’t have to carry hot water to their baths. Nature does it for them.»
«Ah, I knew it,» Jessica purred. «She’sawitch.»
Wolfe pressed his lips together firmly, determined not to let Jessica beguile him with her quick mind and quicker tongue.
«Nothing that sinister,» he said smoothly. «Caleb built their house near a hot spring. Reno put in pipes to the house.»
«Lacking a husband as clever as Caleb and a brother as skilled as Reno, I’ll have to manage getting hot water to my bath in the usual Western fashion — one bucket at a time.»
Wolfe measured the determination in Jessica’s eyes and knew she wouldn’t back down on this issue. He could either carry the pot for her or stand by and watch her pour two gallons of scalding water over herself.
«I’ll carry the bloody water,» he snarled.
Ten minutes later, Wolfe had filled the long, narrow tub, drawn more buckets to heat, and stoked the stove. He stripped off his clothes and lowered himself into the water.
«All right, your ladyship,» he called. «Come and wash your husband.»
«What?»
«Wash me,» Wolfe said impatiently. «That’s something even you should be able to manage.»
The stunned look on Jessica’s face as she came to the doorway should have made Wolfe laugh; instead, it made him angry. He had been looking forward to putting Lady Victoria’s advice towork: Teachthe little nun not to fear a man’s touch.
«Don’t worry, Sister Jessica,» Wolfe said curtly, turning his back as she edged up to the tub, «washing me won’t make you pregnant.»
She didn’t answer. She didn’t even hear Wolfe’s words. The sight of him naked in his bath had taken her breath away. She had been too shaken that night in Lord Stewart’s house to realize how physically magnificent Wolfe was, but now there was no wild panic or pain to distract her.
Now there was nothing but Wolfe’s tawny body gleaming with water and rippling with masculine power.
A curious heat stirred in the pit of Jessica’s stomach, as though she had swallowed a tiny butterfly with wings of golden flame. It reminded her of the hotel in St. Joseph, when the feel of Wolfe brushing her hair had sent heat and pleasure cascading through her.
There’s passion in you, Jessi.
Fear burst in Jessica, chilling the soft heat that had come at the sight of Wolfe sitting in his bath.
I can’t be passionate. I’m not some stupid lamb frisking off to slaughter. If my stomach feels odd, it’s because I’m so tired I’m cross-eyed.
«I’m waiting, wife,» Wolfe said.
Jessica opened her mouth. All that came out was a breathless sound. Wolfe rose from the dark, gently steaming water of the bathtub like a torso by an Italian sculptor: smoothly muscled, poised, powerful, quintessentially masculine in its elegance.
Candlelight rippled over sleek flesh like sunlight over water, heightening the play of muscle beneath skin that was as fine-grained as amber. The combination of stark male power and equally stark male beauty sent heat rushing through Jessica, shortening her breath, making her feel as though Wolfe were running his hands over her.
The thought was both frightening and fascinating. With fingers that trembled, Jessica scooped up soft, rose-scented soap and began rubbing it into Wolfe’s hair. For a few moments, there was silence except for the splashing of water when Wolfe shifted in the tub and the soft, whispering sounds of Jessica’s fingers as she worked rose-scented soap into Wolfe’s hair.
Little of Wolfe was visible but his head, shoulders, and much of his back. The rest of him was hardly more than a golden blur beneath water that looked black but for streaks of lather and the shimmering of candlelight across the water’s surface.