Page 49 of The Guardian’s Favor

You could never lead me astray.

Aidan dismissed the thought as that of a sentimental fool, and walked toward the river’s edge. “As I said, my lady, it will not be a warm, luxurious bath. The water is cold, especially this time of year.”

Or any time of year, really. Even in the summer months, Aidan never stayed in the water for long. He hated cold water. Always had.

“Is it safe?”

Though the moon was high and nearly full, the darkness of the surrounding woods and foreboding current, which was nothing to dismiss, lent the night an air of foreboding.

“Aye,” he said. “We’d not be here otherwise. But I will go in with you to be sure.”

He began to lift the hem of his shirt when Clarissa stopped him.

“Pardon?”

Of course. He should explain. “You should remove your cape and boots. I will do the same—”

“But you’re not wearing a cape.”

Her eyes looked as wide as the moon. Aidan scolded himself. She may have been married, but Clarissa was still very much innocent.

“I will remove only my shirt,” he explained, “and will be with you the entire time.”

Aidan moved to take off his leather boots, reminding her to do the same, and then removed his shirt. He waited for Clarissa to disrobe, telling himself he was strong enough to do this.

She is not yours to claim.

But it seemed the reminder was not necessary, or at least not yet. With her feet bare, Clarissa did not move.

She was staring at his chest.

Aidan had been admired before. Many times, in fact. But never had a woman’s gaze made him feel quite like this. Clarissa’s lips parted, and she did not move to hide the fact that she very much appreciated what she saw. Not surprisingly, Aidan responded. He hardened, watching her. Neither of them moved.

“Surely you’ve seen men in this state. In training?” He did not wish to speak Lord Stanley’s name, and while he was not an arrogant man, he knew there was a difference between the body of a warrior and that of an old layabout.

Clarissa shook her head. “I’d never been allowed near the training yard.”

Christ’s toes . . . he couldn’t help himself.

“If you continue to stare at me, lass—”

She immediately turned her head. “I’m sorry for being so rude.”

He took a step toward her.

“I just—” Her sharp intake of breath when he grabbed her wrist and brought her hand toward his chest sent a jolt of lust through him, though Aidan ignored it. He would not touch her. Good God, man. Then why are you guiding her hand to you?

“You are not rude, but curious. And you’ve a right to be so, Clarissa.”

When she met his eyes, he nodded, giving her permission to do as she would. When he removed his hand from hers, he held his breath, waiting.

Splaying her fingers out across his chest, she moved them over the muscles that twitched beneath the feather-light touch of her fingertips. He knew where they were headed. Sure enough, she traced them downward, not quite caressing but definitely exploring each ridge of his stomach. He forced himself to take deep, even breaths.

“’Tis nothing like Lord Stanley.”

If anything could have tempered his reaction to her touch, it was that. Aidan covered her hand lest she move any lower.

“I would expect not.”