Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,23

she paused by the door, her breath catching with last minute nervousness. No point running now though. He’d have heard her.

Esme rapped sharply, before she could convince herself otherwise, and waited.

“Aye?” Rip called, water stirring as he sat up.

“Are you decent?” she asked.

There was a long moment of silence. “I’m in the bath.”

Decent enough. They didn’t sit on formalities here in the Warren. Esme took a deep breath and pushed inside.

Rip sank down with a splash and a yelp, the water sloshing over his waist and stomach. “Christ, Esme. What the ‘ell are you doin?” A look of something raw and almost violent crossed his face, and he slammed his hands over his groin.

“You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before,” she reminded him, closing the door behind her. “I am a widow, John.”

“Aye, well ain’t a man entitled to his privacy?” he snarled.

The first hint of anger she’d ever heard directed at her. Esme examined him. Not anger. No. She’d never seen him so discomposed before. Rip was nothing if not confident.

But then she’d never seen him stripped to the skin before. She knew he didn’t like to display the gaunt steel of his mech arm. Here in the East End a mechanical limb meant you were either a Slasher, or one of the mechs that ought to be bound in the enclaves to work off their mech-debt. Either way it was a sign that you weren’t quite human, or not human enough for some.

Esme didn’t linger long on his mech arm though. The rest of him caught her eye. Oh, she might have imagined what he’d look like beneath those heavy, oilskin coats he wore, but the reality… the reality was breath-taking.

All sleek, heavy-set muscle, slightly flushed from the heat of the bath. Golden skin that gleamed beneath the lantern-light. He’d razored his hair and beard again, so that the hair was barely stubble. Thick and black, it gave him a villainous look, but he was her villain.

“I thought you might need a friend,” she replied, crossing slowly to the bath.

Rip watched her warily, water streaming from the faucet over his curled up knee. He shifted, as if to cover himself better. “Now you want to be friends? Christ, Esme. I don’t understand what’s goin’ on wit’ you.” His voice dropped. “And you could ‘ave better timin’. This ain’t… it ain’t decent.”

The flush of heat along his cheekbones made her smile, despite her hurt. “I never suspected you’d be so prim.”

Those wicked green eyes met hers. “’Ow ‘bout you strip off and I’ll get dressed and we’ll see composed you are?”

“There’s enough soap in the bath to keep you decent.”

Rip looked down, bubbles licking at his mid-riff. Still, he didn’t draw his hands away. “Still ain’t right.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d read Lady Hammersley’s Rules of Etiquette.” Despite herself, she couldn’t help teasing him. “Besides, you’ve had your mouth on my throat, John. That’s rather more intimate than this, wouldn’t you agree?”

He looked away. Not to be drawn by her teasing. A part of her deflated. “Why are you ‘ere?” he asked.

Esme paused by the stand that held the bath oils and soaps. Picking up a vial of rosewood oil, she sniffed it, then stoppered it again. Blade was always one for signs of decadence. The wash-chamber could have been found in one of the Echelon’s homes.

“I thought you might want to talk,” she said quietly. “You looked upset when you came in through the door.”

Water splashed as he reached for the faucet and turned it off. Esme watched him hungrily, smelling the next oil. Too lemony.

“Ain’t upset. Just… frustrated.” He leaned back in the tub, legs drawn up to fit his length. Bubbles clung to the thick dark hairs on his muscular thighs. “Were workin’ on this a few days. Didn’t tell Blade ‘til tonight.”

“You knew the Slashers were in the ‘Chapel?” She looked up from another vial sharply, surprised that Blade wasn’t angrier.

“Wanted to ‘andle it meself,” Rip repeated with a growl.

“Did Blade say anything?”

“Aye.” A gruff warning for her to drop the subject.

Esme idly sniffed another vial. Sandalwood. She’d always liked the smell. Grabbing a bar of soap and a wash cloth, she took the oil and crossed to the bath.

Rip didn’t quite stiffen but she could sense the tension in his body. Another jolt to the heart. His disapproval of this was clear.

“Relax,” she murmured, feeling it sharply in her chest. Hurt brewed up, but she pushed it aside. Tonight wasn’t about her.

Sitting on the lip