Free Captive Scoundrel by Annette Blair

courage to work her way toward that dreaded triangle of mystery.
     
    “Surely mine is not the first man’s body you’ve seen?”
     
    “Certainly not.” How could a voice she’d prayed so long to hear, infuriate her so? Of course she’d never seen another man’s body. Papa had washed grandfather, and Justin looked different from little Andy’s.
     
    Hands shaking, determined to finish, Faith arrived at the dratted location he indicated, making certain a thick layer of suds covered him. She did a thorough washing, scrubbing around and under parts she yearned to examine at her leisure. She lowered her chin to hide her colour. Examine at her leisure? Really? She scrubbed harder.
     
    “Bloody hell!” Justin pushed her hand away and nearly doubled over cupping himself.
     
    That area was softer than she expected. “Did I hurt them?”
     
    “I wanted to be washed not castrated.”
     
    “Cat’s what?” she asked.
     
    “You mutilated my—”
     
    “Never mind, dolt.” She didn’t want to know what she crushed. She retrieved the washcloth and threw it at his head. “That’s what you get, you disagreeable, bad-tempered….”
     
    He caught her arm as she turned away. “Faith. I was teasing.”
     
    “Knowing full well how uncomfortable I found handling your private parts?”
     
    “I like you handling my private parts.”
     
    Faith pulled from his grip and emptied the wash basin over his no-longer private parts. “Go to the devil, Justin Devereux.”
     
    “Damn it, woman, that’s hot.” He spoiled his rage by chuckling at her ire.
     
    In her room, Faith leaned against her closed door. Chequered with outrageous curses—for her entertainment, she was certain—his amusement sounded wonderful.
     
    Later she returned to find him naked and sound asleep on the dry side of the bed. And for the first time, Faith was able to study him, his wide shoulders, no longer defined by bone, but muscle, the dark hair on his chest that arrowed toward…everything. She should be embarrassed, but she was not, and she could not look away. Even in repose—and she had once seen that particular man part otherwise—Faith thought him splendid.
     
    Her mother had spoken to her of desire as the need for the physical expression of love between two people. But Faith had not really understood…until this moment, when she responded physically, her body reacting of its own volition, to the beauty of his.
     
    Entranced, she stepped closer…and looked into dark knowing eyes, the lines around them blossoming with his smile.
     
    Justin wanted to say, ‘Caught you,’ but she’d catch fire, so red were her cheeks. “I’m cold,” he said, instead, and was thanked with a grateful expression as she covered him.
     
    Then he watched her change the bed linen—the reason for its slogged state and her clandestine examination, sitting heavily between them. He liked the blush that stole up her neck. Not for the first time, he wondered where it began and wanted to ask. But she was distressed enough without him embarrassing her further. Did she sense this attachment between them? A connection forged by care, admiration, and something…more? “Damn it, no!”
     
    Faith looked up. “Cross again? Have I tucked a blanket wrong? I vow, you’d find fault with a fat goose.”
     
    “Sit down, will you. Your fussing makes me dizzy.”
     
    “Fussing is it? You would rather sleep in a wet bed?”
     
    “I expect I have before.”
     
    She regarded her hands with interest. “Not since I arrived.”
     
    “I thank you for that.” He took her hand. “Forgive my fitful disposition. It’s difficult to lie here and be waited upon. I am become a burden, and I had rather be the saviour than the saved.”
     
    Mischief sparked in her emerald eyes as she slipped his nightshirt over his head. “As you would rather be the seducer than the seduced?”
     
    He smiled inwardly and decided to allow her attempt to cheer him. “Seducer? What