Free The Least Likely Bride by Jane Feather

word of honor.” There was a laugh in his voice.
    “Honor?” Olivia exclaimed. “You’re not a man of honor. You’re a pirate and a thief, and you draw people’s naked bodies when they’re not aware of it, and I’m sure you’ve killed people as well. You’re not a gentleman. How c-could you possibly talk of honor?”
    “But have you never heard of honor among thieves, Olivia?” he inquired without turning from the chart table. The laugh remained in his voice. “I promise you, you’ll see only my back. But do, I beg you, make haste. Otherwise the water will be cold by the time it’s my turn, and I’m in sore need of soap and fresh clothes.”
    Olivia hesitated, then approached the tub with a sense of helpless resignation. If he did turn around, what did it matter? He’d see nothing he hadn’t already seen. But then he’d had on his physician’s hat, she reminded herself. Whatever hat he was wearing now, it had crowned no physician’s head.
    She poured hot water into the tub and drew the nightshirt over her head. She looked quickly over to him, but he was still studiously working on the charts, humming to himself.
    Hastily she dipped a piece of towel in the hot water, rubbed soap on it, and sponged her body. It felt so wonderful that she almost forgot that she wasn’t alone. Then she heard a movement behind her and grabbed up a towel to cover herself, an indignant exclamation on her lips. But he’d gone in what seemed like a straight line to the chessboard beneath the window, and he still had his back to her.
    “I see you’ve completed the problem,” he observed casually. “It wasn’t a particularly challenging one, I found.”
    “Then why didn’t you finish it yourself?” she demanded, drying herself as quickly as she could.
    “I was about to, but I was called away,” he replied with an airy wave of his hand. He selected several pieces from the wooden box that stood beside the board and placed them on the squares. “Let’s see how you do with this one.”
    Olivia drew the clean nightshirt over her head. Her sigh of relief was audible and Anthony raised his head and looked at her. His eyes held his secret smile. He came over to her and cupped her face in both hands, then he ran his fingers through the mass of damp black curls framing her face, combing and fluffing out her hair. “I told you I was a passable coiffeur.”
    He laughed and lightly ran the pad of his thumb over her mouth. “You have such a beautiful complexion. Like thick cream. And your eyes are magnificent. Black and soft as velvet.”
    Olivia stared at him. It was the first she’d heard of this. “Are you … are you making love to me?”
    “Not yet.” He laughed again and pinched her nose. “I never make love when I’m hungry.”
    Olivia stepped away from him, regarding him rather in the manner of a Christian facing the lions. “I think you are a rake,” she pronounced. “And I will not let you make love to me.”
    “No?” He raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s an academic question at present.” He turned from her and pulled his shirt over his head. His back was tanned to a deep burnished gold. It was long and slim and tapered.
    Olivia felt a curious little tug in the base of her belly. She dragged her eyes away and picked up the emerald sash, tying it around her waist. She heard the clink of his belt buckle and involuntarily looked towards him again.
    He tossed his belt to the floor and with one smooth movement pushed his britches off his hips and stepped out of them.
    Olivia’s jaw dropped.
    “You did say you were accustomed to the male form,” he said. “Without the fig leaves.”
    Yes! On paper or cast in bronze.
Olivia tried to speak but her throat felt stuffed with cotton. He was bending over the tub, splashing his face. His buttocks, smooth and flat, were as tanned as his back, his thighs dusted with fair curls, the hard muscles rippling in thigh and calf as he braced himself. And she could see between