Free The Sinner by Madeline Hunter Page A

sending it down through pipes. What a novelty. I will have to use it.”
    She left him. He stared at the contraption and pictured a naked Fleur, slick with water, reclining in it.
    “Oh, my,” he heard her say again.
    This time he found her in the bedchamber, holding a candle high and looking up under the drapes. “How very clever.”
    Dante strolled to the red, satin-covered bed. Luxurious. Huge. He peeked under the canopy to see what fascinated Fleur.
    A large mirror hung directly over the bed and under the drapes, suspended on stiff wires.
    “Do you think this is another of the hotel’s new conveniences?” Fleur asked.
    “More likely McLean added this himself.”
    She moved the candle around. She did not appear very shocked at all. “He is a very inventive man.”
    “He prides himself on it.”
    “Look how it reflects the light off this candle and makes it grow. Why, if you lit several you could read all night almost as if it were day. Mr. McLean must be devoted to books to have come up with such a brilliant solution.”
    “In his own area of investigation, the man is a renowned scholar.”
    Their gazes met across the glistening expanse of that satin bed. She froze, as if she suddenly realized where they were. Or as if she read in his eyes the images of reflected loveplay romping through his brain.
    “Come to the sitting room and have some wine,” he said. “McLean arranged for some to be sent up.”
    She walked around the wonderful bed. In the sitting room she perched herself on a little chair. “It was kind of your friend to do this for us. I am more tired than I had realized. These chambers are perfectly beautiful.”
    “Perfectly beautiful, perhaps, but not perfectly convenient, despite the piped warm water. There is only one bedchamber.”
    She glanced a sharp question to a door on the other side of the room.
    He shook his head. “A study.”
    He handed her a silver goblet of wine, realizing belatedly that it bore relief images of satyrs having their ways with nymphs.
    She did not notice. She was examining the fragile furniture of the room. “I don’t suppose that there is a divan in the study?”
    “Afraid not. I will take some blankets and make myself comfortable on the rug out here.”
    She peered down at her wine. “It is really not necessary for you to sleep on the floor. You could use the bed too.”
    It took a five count for him to absorb what she had said. “Excuse me?”
    A deep flush rose up from her neck. “It is a very big bed, and we are both very tired and face a long journey. It will be a little awkward, I admit, but I expect over the years this situation will occur again. When we visit people, for example.”
    His body instantly announced that sharing a bed with her would be a mistake. The very idea had him hardening. Sanity demanded that he make do with the rug.
    However, the notion of sleeping with her, even chastely, held an unexpected appeal. He could not explain why he wanted that intimacy, but he did. And just maybe . . .
    “You are sure? I would not want you frightened or embarrassed.”
    “You never frighten me. I trust you completely.”
    So much for “just maybe.” He would prefer she did not trust him. There was no reason why she should, and it was damn inconvenient that she did.
    “This is very considerate of you. We will get a servant to help you with that bath. I will wait until you are asleep before I retire myself.”
    “That is very thoughtful.”
    She rose and disappeared into the bedchamber. When a manservant came to the door, Dante sent for a woman. He paced the sitting room until she arrived and went in to assist Fleur. Soon the sounds of splashing water drifted through the suite. Images of his wife washing her body lapped against his mind, defeating attempts to remain distracted.
    He gladly would bathe her himself. And later lift her from the tepid water and dry her with the soft towel and carry her to that satin bed and take her slowly under the