Page 82 of The Scot

“Terric. Look at you!”

Judging from her tone, he assumed she did not mean it as a compliment.

“Have you slept since the siege began?”

She walked toward him, but Terric stopped her. “I’ve a chambermaid attending. Go to sleep, as I plan to.”

Cait cocked her head to the side, appearing ready to argue with him. Thankfully, the maid appeared, confirming that he had, indeed, secured assistance. “Good eve, little sister.”

He didn’t wait for Cait to respond and neither did she appear to move. Instead, she watched as he stumbled into the chamber, tossed his mantle atop the chest at the foot of his bed, and waited for the maid to leave. Except she didn’t. She stood next to the bowl of clove-scented water.

“I can attend to myself.”

Still, she did not move.

Terric realized he had seen the woman before, although he did not know her name.

“You are tired, my lord.” She picked the cloth back up. “Allow me to assist you.”

Terric closed his eyes, overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion. The sight of the bed had made him feel every bit of sleep he had not gotten. He struggled with his tunic, but could not get it free—until he did.

Because the maid had helped him.

Though it was not unusual for a chambermaid to assist someone in such a manner, there was just one woman he wished to see him unclothed. And it was not the chambermaid.

“I can attend to myself,” he said more forcefully.

Bowing her head, the maid reluctantly handed him the cloth. Somehow, he’d missed her look before. He escorted her to the door. “Good eve.”

Terric opened it.

And no longer yearned for sleep.

Roysa stood there, in a thick, fur-lined velvet robe. Her hair fell in waves, everywhere.

She looked at the maid, who raised her chin in defiance and fled.

“Roysa.”

She didn’t need to inquire about the maid. Or ask if his decision about the siege meant what she thought it did. The look Terric gave her, the thickness in his voice as he said her name . . .

She stepped through the door, took the cloth from his hand, and waited for him to recover. When he did, he closed the heavy wooden door behind him, latched it, and stood next to the bowl. Next to her.

“Take off your shirt.”

He did not hesitate. “With pleasure.”

He continued to study her. But as soon as he removed his linen shirt, it was she who studied him. Every muscle, every indentation. Somehow she remembered to dip the cloth into the water.

“Come closer.”

“Also with pleasure.”

“I assume this is what the maid had planned to do?” When the cloth first dipped down to touch his chest, his muscles twitched as if in welcome. Roysa cursed the cloth for separating her fingers from his flesh.

“Apparently so. Though I’d not have allowed it.”

Roysa continued to move the cloth along his chest and shoulders.