Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,24

of the bath, she dunked the washcloth into the water. Rip almost leapt out of the bath. “What are you doin’?”

Esme soaped up the cloth. “Washing your back,” she replied, wishing he didn’t sound as if she’d suggested he roll in a dead cat. “You can’t reach.”

Steeling herself, she put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him forward. Rip complied, wrapping his arms around his knees stiffly.

If she’d thought his arm muscly, then she had never quite glimpsed his back. The bulk of his neck was as thick as one of his thighs. Esme rubbed the washcloth gently across his shoulder, leaving a trail of lather behind.

“Thought I could ‘andle it,” he said suddenly. “Just wanted… I dunno. To prove I were under control, that I could do this. Been so fuckin’ useless the last few months. I ‘ate it.”

Tension curled through his body.

Esme slowly soaped Rip’s back, sliding the cloth up over his shoulder and down his chest. She had to rest her hand on his other shoulder to reach, her fingertips touching cool metal. The edges of his skin were ragged and puckered where the steel met it. Rip quivered as if his skin were highly sensitive there.

“Blade said you killed some of the Slashers,” she murmured, caressing the heavy slab of his pectorals.

“Not enough.”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Every one of them that you kill means one less to harm the innocent.”

“Slasher gangs spring up like mushrooms,” he muttered. “Can’t get rid of ‘em. Always those ‘ard enough to see no other way to live. Coin’s a good lure.”

“You brought Meggie’s mother home,” she reminded him.

Rip sighed. “It were Blade. I couldn’t go near ‘er. Not with all the blood.”

“Aye, well, Meggie thinks you’re a hero. You were the one who promised her you’d try and find her mother.”

“Ain’t no ‘ero.”

“You are to me,” she whispered. “You saved a frightened little girl and her mother.”

Their eyes met and Rip said nothing. Still, she thought he looked pleased with her words. Or accepting, at least.

Slowly he relaxed back against the bath, tipping his head back against the lip. The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed, his dark lashes fluttering closed against his cheeks.

Esme continued her slow, hypnotic movements, unable to take her eye from his face. Sinking the cloth below the water, she dragged it up, dripping water across his soapy chest. Rip shifted, his eyes fluttering open as she delved beneath the water again, but he soon settled once he realized the movement was innocuous.

“This is nice,” he admitted.

“I used to do this for Tom,” she mused. “Or sometimes I would climb in with him.”

Stillness. “You miss your ‘usband.”

“Of course I do.” She clenched the cloth in her hands, wringing it out. “It was a long time ago though. Another world.” And she preferred the rough edges of the Warren, with its warmth and cheer compared to living with Tom and his mother, no matter how much she’d loved him. A guilty thought, but true.

Rip seemed to think on that. “Surprised you never married again.” He looked up at her as she dropped the cloth on the stand and picked up the vial of sandalwood oil.

“Perhaps nobody has asked me,” she replied, with careful neutrality.

“That butcher on Abbott’s Lane took a liking to you.” His words seemed just as careful.

“Lots of men have ‘taken a liking’ to me in the last few years. And not one of them plucked up the courage to do anything more, with Blade’s sign of protection tattooed on my wrist.” She let the oil drip into her cupped palm and then set it aside, rubbing her hands together. “Lean forward.”

Rip eyed her hands. “What are you doin’ now?”

“Have you ever seen me knead dough?” she asked as he sat up again. Sliding closer, she settled directly behind him.

“Aye.”

Esme reached out and slid her hand over his shoulders and neck, the slick-shine of the oil gleaming on his skin. She was generous with it, rubbing her palms over his shoulders and down his chest, then dragging them back up his arm. Rip shifted, but the stiffness had leeched out of him again.

The feel of his skin was like rough silk beneath her palms. His chest was hairless, his nipples tightening as she flickered her fingers over them. A tease that made his breath catch. Not quite immune to her then.

Just not interested.

She buried the pain and concentrated on stroking the smooth muscles of his neck. To please him.