Page 24 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

AN HOUR LATER

A s Bran sank deeper into the copper tub, steam rising off the surface of the water, sweat beading down the side of his face, he understood one thing.

Artemis had been correct.

He was man enough to own it.

A bath hot enough to boil a frog was what he’d needed—the weightlessness of his body, the heat pulling the pain from his leg. It had been a week since his last swim, and he’d missed being immersed in water more than he’d known.

What a force of nature she was.

When she resolved to do as she pleased, good luck trying to stop her. She was spoiled and indulged in that way, as the daughter of a duke. But then, who wouldn’t want to spoil and indulge Artemis? It was that artlessness in her—that goodness, too.

Though Bran’s body was relaxing and finding a measure of peace within itself, his mind wasn’t.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

The past—their past together—wasn’t what they’d thought it all this time.

But hadn’t he suspected as much these last weeks?

And tonight suspicion had crossed the threshold of lingering doubt into concrete fact.

She knew he hadn’t taken the ￡20,000—and he knew she’d never any intention of marrying Stoke.

Which left a trail of lies that led back to a source that was clear—Artemis’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Rakesley.

A beauty of no minor renown, the woman was a duchess to her core—stylish, curated, and arrogant. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

The opposite of Artemis in every way.

That had been his foremost thought when he’d first seen the duchess at Artemis’s come-out ball. Where Artemis radiated effusive warmth, the duchess held herself at an arch and unyielding angle.

Even in looks they were opposites. Artemis held a lush dark beauty that wanted to overflow. The duchess had the bearing of an ice goddess, with her blonde hair and glacial blue eyes, not an ounce of excess to be found on her entire person, except by way of silks and jewels.

It had taken Bran the split of a second to understand such a woman wouldn’t welcome him as suitor to her only daughter, though as the son of an earl, he was an eligible match. A few months later, it had come as no surprise when she’d offered him ￡20,000 to abandon his pursuit of Artemis.

He’d refused the money outright with no small amount of scorn. What was ￡20,000 without Artemis as his?

There had been more, too.

That business of Stoke believing he would wed Artemis.

Bran had little doubt the duchess had been the impetus behind that, as well.

Did Artemis suspect the duchess’s role in those events of ten years ago?

That was tricky.

Goodness resided within Artemis, all the way to her core—and she believed others contained the same well of goodness, too. Her belief in that rascal Mr. Scunt was a case in point.

But one thing further he knew.

It wasn’t his place to tell her any hard truths about her mother.

However, his primary concern lay with two other points.

What had she believed of him all these years? That he was fickle and a scoundrel. She’d made that much clear.

But a second point kept pulling at his mind and prevented him from completely giving over to the pleasure of this bath.

What did this new information mean for them going forward?

The fact was neither of them was the exact person they’d been ten years ago. They weren’t strangers, but they weren’t much more than that, either.

Yet, weren’t they?

In ways, it felt like no amount of time had passed. It was the same as when they’d first met—as if they’d always known each other. Feelings of awareness and connection, of knowing and being known, that transcended inconsequential notions like time.

That was how it had always been with Artemis.

What was four blissful months—or even ten wretched years—to the scope of eternity?

Dangerous thoughts, these.

Three light raps sounded on the door.

Bran didn’t bother opening his eyes as he called out, “All’s well here.”

A few seconds later came the creak of door hinges turning.

Annoyance fired through Bran as he opened his eyes and turned his head. “There’s no need—” The completion of the sentence froze in his mouth.

Artemis .

There was high-minded timelessness and eternity, but there was also the physical world of now with its drives and pulls.

Dressed in an ivory silk robe, her feet bare, she held a candle aloft, bathing her in a wash of warm golden light. A feeling very much at odds with the relaxation of seconds ago fired through Bran— readiness .

Readiness for whatever it was this woman had come for.

No longer was her hair tied back in a neat braid, but rather it hung loose about her shoulders. She’d readied herself for bed before coming here. Perhaps a night chemise lay beneath her robe—perhaps not.

Here she was, looking like every dream he’d ever had of her—and every nightmare.

“Artemis,” he said, for something needed to be said. Many somethings, in fact. But what they might be escaped his mind.

Her dark eyes shone bright with a complex stirring of emotion—shyness, curiosity, and determination. And something else, too. Something Bran wished he couldn’t see.

Need.

She moved to the table where they’d taken their meal and set her candlestick down. “I wanted to make sure the water is to your satisfaction.”

Satisfaction.

What a word.

“It is,” he said, as if biting off each syllable. He could only hope his tone was firm enough to subdue whatever was happening in this room.

“I can have more hot water brought in.” She reached for the shirt he’d draped over the back of a chair.

“There is no need.”

Mindlessly, she began folding the shirt. “And your leg? Is it feeling better?” She placed the garment on the table.

“Much.”

And still she didn’t look inclined to leave.

In fact, she’d drawn closer.

Another sort of tension entered his body. One he’d come to know well over the last two years.

Shame.

Instinctively, he reached for a towel and dragged it into the tub to cover himself. The water turned it translucent. Well, it was something, at least.

Her gaze didn’t flinch as she watched his paltry attempt at modesty. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m fairly certain propriety demands it.”

Propriety.

When had they ever given a toss about propriety?

“That’s not why you covered yourself, Bran.”

Oh, this woman.

They’d never stopped knowing each other, had they?

She stepped closer.

He should stop this— now .

The glint of another emotion entered her eye— intention .

He should definitely stop this.

Before it was too late.

Or was it already?

Or … how could anything be too late when they existed together outside the bounds of time?

“You don’t have to hide yourself from me.”

Oh, but didn’t he?

Didn’t he need to establish some distance?

Too late.

She lowered to her knees.

“Artemis,” he said, all too aware of his left hand balanced on the lip of the bathing tub. That hand was only inches from her. If it liked, that hand could reach up and take her silken hair between its fingers and caress the side of her face.

“Yes?”

“I’m not one of your wounded sanctuary animals.”

Though a flash of hurt passed behind her eyes, it felt important to say this—to establish a boundary by all but stating a simple fact.

He was still very much a man.

And the rigid cockstand straining against translucent linen attested strongly to the fact.

Slowly, deliberately, her gaze roved over him, pausing here and there to take in a part of him that was forgotten and remembered— the line of his jaw —or new— the scar on his right cheek .

Down, her eyes drifted, too … down his throat, following a bead of sweat …

across the width of his shoulders … down his chest …

his stomach, ridged with tension … Every place on his body her gaze touched, he felt viscerally.

And what he detected in her eyes was neither disgust nor pity, but appreciation.

He was, indeed, very much a man, her gaze acknowledged.

Further down went the drift of her gaze until it came to a rest—on his cockstand. There was simply no denying it.

A dusky blush pinking her cheeks, she bit her bottom lip between her teeth—and he knew. Her cheeks weren’t rosy from embarrassment or shyness, but desire .

What she saw, she wanted.

She wanted him .

Her gaze lifted and found his. He met wanting there, naked and raw.

“May I?” she asked.

Who was he to deny this woman anything?

His eyes fast on hers, he nodded.

Her attention turned toward the towel covering his lower half, and her hand slipped beneath.

Uncertain fingertips touched his calf, and a bolt of heat lashed through him.

His eyes closed, and he allowed himself to feel .

It had been so long since a woman— this woman—had touched his body.

He’d closed himself off from that want, knowing he would never have it again—a woman touching him, not out of duty of care, but out of desire.

But this … He couldn’t close himself off from it.

Her fingers wrapped firmly around his calf, and he sucked in a sharp breath when she began to knead the muscle. Her brow knitted with concern. “Is it too much?”

Too much?

No such thing when it came to Artemis.

He shook his head.

Her hand moved along his calf, higher, as she gave her all into the massage …

over his knee … onto his thigh. Deeper, she dug into dense muscle, working and loosing two-year-old knots.

As much as he wanted to sink into this feeling of pleasure and release, the call of a different sort of pleasure and release pulled at him.

Could a cock burst from wanting?

It was possible he would find out tonight.

Before he sank irretrievably far down into these thoughts, he opened his eyes in the hope reality would cool fantasy.

The view did nothing to temper him.

It only threatened to ignite ember into flame.

With her exertions, Artemis’s robe had fallen open into a V down her décolletage. Impossible to ignore was the tendril of long, sable hair that led the eye toward the sway of round breasts that promised to have grown only more delectable in the years since he’d last tasted them.

He’d experienced desire too many times in his life to count. So, too, had he quenched desire nearly as many times. But this desire was like none other.

He wanted Artemis.

Of course, he wanted her.

But this wanting … He might die of it.

Unable not to, he reached out, a tremor within his fingers, and touched fingertips to her face in a light caress. She stilled, and her eyes drifted shut. He was feeling feminine downy softness, and she was feeling masculine calloused roughness.

They were unified in the feel of each other.

Something he’d thought never to experience again.

Never thought to allow himself.

But here, tonight, a spell had been cast around them.

This touch felt natural.

It had been the withholding of touch all these weeks that was unnatural.

How had he survived all this time without this?

Without the feel of her beneath his hand.

Certainly, there were more truths between them that needed addressing.

But not this one.

This truth was clear.

Them.

It was the fundamental truth from which all else sprang.

What other truths mattered?

None in this moment.

“Touch me, Artemis.”

He had no right to the demand.

Her right was refusal.

But the flare of her pupils told him she was considering exercising the right he’d extended— permission .