Free The Bartered Bride by Mary Jo Putney

basin of water, I'll clean the lacerations." Perhaps it was foolish to offer when it would be easier for him to tend himself, but she wanted to do something for him, no matter how small. Words weren't enough to express how she felt.
    He brought a basin of water from the bedroom, along with folded rags and a small jar of basilicurn ointment. Taking a cushion, he extended one hand through the bars. Gently she washed away grit and blood, then spread ointment on the raw skin. Faint, long-healed scars showed that his hands were those of a working man, but they were also strong, well shaped, and capable. Hands that could be trusted. Gavin seemed to be dozing against the bars, but when she returned one hand and took the other, he murmured, "It's nice to be pampered."
    "I suppose that usually the captain sees to others, and no one sees to him." He shrugged. "Suryo takes good care of me."
    Though his steward was a fine man, it sounded very lonely. Once again she felt profound regret that Gavin's wife had died. With his patience and warmth, he was obviously born to be a doting husband and father. He deserved a pure and loving wife. Instead, all he had at the moment was her, a battered and ruined slave. But at least she could do her best to ensure his hands didn't become inflamed. She frowned when she noticed scraped areas along the side of his forehead and cheekbone. Rinsing a cloth, she reached through the bars to gently clean the abraded skin. His eyes opened, only inches from hers. Her heart accelerated at the intimacy of his nearness. It took a strong man to be so unguarded. But what she felt wasn't attraction, no. Attraction was something that the old, pre-slavery Alexandra might feel. It had no place in her present or future. Breaking her gaze away, she finished cleaning his forehead and applied the ointment. "What you need, Captain, is a bath and a good night's sleep."
    "So I can dream of tomorrow's test?" He grimaced. "I hope it's swimming or diving or chess. Those I could manage fairly well."
    "You did splendidly today. You'll do as well tomorrow," she said, trying to sound confident. He stood, moving stiffly. "Let's hope God wants you free, because I can use all the help I can get." As he vanished into his bedroom, she thought that God was probably busy, and that was why He'd sent Gavin Elliott. She smiled, knowing the thought would have embarrassed the gallant captain if she'd said it aloud.
    She picked up the book of Byron's poetry and leafed idly through the pages, pausing at The Prisoner of Chillon. The description of a man long-imprisoned, despairing as he watched his brothers die, was chilling. Byron had imagined well, until the end, when the prisoner said, "My very chains and I grew friends ... " She could not imagine such resignation. Like the prisoner's brothers, she would have preferred death.
    Yet she'd loved Byron's work as a girl, hiding away a slim volume of his poems because she suspected her mother might not approve. Now that she was a mother herself, she sympathized-Byron could be quite ribald-but she hadn't noticed that when she was young. The exotic settings had enthralled her. He created worlds of high romance, with dashing, dangerous heroes who did great deeds and loved great loves.
    Tall, handsome, and brooding, Edmund Warren had been the very picture of a Byronic hero. She'd probably not have accepted his offer if he'd been fair-haired and average looking. Her taste in men must have gone back to her father, who'd been a very dashing cavalry officer. When she'd married, she hadn't known how to look beyond a face to a man's soul.
    A pity that she hadn't fallen in love with a decent, kind, undashing man when she was still capable of love. Now the thought of a physical relationship caused her stomach to knot. She was too old, too scarred for romance. She'd squandered her chance. Not that her marriage had been a disaster, but it had been far less than she had hoped for. She had expected the deep, joyous love