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Authors: Jane Feather
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beneath the bed, pulling out a round wooden tub. “There’s not enough hot fresh water for you to bathe properly, but if you kneel here, I’ll wash your hair for you. Then I must dress the wound at the back of your leg.”
Olivia hesitated. “Why’s my leg bandaged?”
“It was the worst of your hurts.” He knelt beside the tub, crooking a finger at her. “It’s a long gash that had picked up a quantity of dirt and pieces of gravel on your slide down the cliff. I was obliged to stitch it, which is why it probably feels rather tight.”
Olivia touched the bandage through the folds of the nightshirt. It was very high up on her thigh. “I can manage to tend to myself now,” she said. “And I c-can wash my own hair.”
“You need to be careful of the bruise on the back of your head. It’ll be easier if I do it, because I know where it is,” he responded calmly. “Besides, Adam willbe bringing dinner soon and I for one am very sharp-set. So come.”
He unwrapped a cake of soap from one of the towels. “Verbena,” he told her. “I’ll lay odds you thought a pirate’s soap was made of pig’s fat and woodash.”
Olivia couldn’t help laughing. “I suppose I did. But I don’t think you’re a proper pirate. You’re not bloodthirsty enough and you laugh too much. Pirates have black curling beards and they carry cutlasses in their teeth. Oh, and they drink a lot of rum,” she added.
“I for one prefer a decent claret and a good cognac,” Anthony said solemnly, shaking out a towel. “And I am a passable coiffeur, not to mention lady’s maid, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”
There seemed nothing for it. Olivia knelt beside the tub, the folds of the nightshirt billowing around her. Anthony draped a towel around her shoulders and scooped her hair off her neck, tossing it forward as she bent her head.
The hot water felt wonderful, but not as wonderful as his fingers moving gently across her scalp, cleverly avoiding the soreness that she had felt when she’d turned her head on the pillow. The scent of verbena filled the cabin, and the hot water washed through the thick black fall of her hair. Olivia’s eyelids drooped and she drifted in the warm scented hinterland behind her eyes.
“There, that should do it.” The sound of his voice was shocking in the silence. Olivia lifted her head hurriedly and water dripped down the back of her neck, soaking the collar of her makeshift gown.
“That wasn’t very clever,” Anthony observed, gathering her hair between his hands and wringing it out over the tub. He wrapped a towel turban-style around her head. “You’d better change that … that … whatwould you call what you’re wearing?” He regarded her quizzically.
“Your nightshirt,” Olivia responded, standing up slowly. “Maybe Adam’s finished my c-clothes now.”
“He’s busy cooking, but I have dozens of nightshirts. My aunt embroiders them for me. She has the strangest notions about me.” He opened the cupboard in the bulwark.
“You have an aunt?” Olivia exclaimed. “Pirates can’t have aunts.”
“Well, as far as I know, I wasn’t the result of immaculate conception, so this particular pirate does have one…. Ah, this one should do. As I recall, it has some particularly exquisite lacework on the sleeves.” He shook out another of the voluminous garments.
“And an emerald sash, I think, since we’re dressing for dinner.” He selected a rich green silk cravat. “You won’t need one for your hair this evening.”
“No,” Olivia agreed faintly. She was still trying to equate embroidering aunts with
Wind Dancer
’s master. “Where does your aunt live?”
“Not far away,” he responded casually and uninfor-matively, tossing the fresh nightshirt and sash onto the bed. He opened another cupboard and took out a wooden casket. Then he turned back to Olivia with a speculative air. “Do you wish to lie on the bed while I dress your leg? Or would you rather stand? I
Olivia hesitated. “Why’s my leg bandaged?”
“It was the worst of your hurts.” He knelt beside the tub, crooking a finger at her. “It’s a long gash that had picked up a quantity of dirt and pieces of gravel on your slide down the cliff. I was obliged to stitch it, which is why it probably feels rather tight.”
Olivia touched the bandage through the folds of the nightshirt. It was very high up on her thigh. “I can manage to tend to myself now,” she said. “And I c-can wash my own hair.”
“You need to be careful of the bruise on the back of your head. It’ll be easier if I do it, because I know where it is,” he responded calmly. “Besides, Adam willbe bringing dinner soon and I for one am very sharp-set. So come.”
He unwrapped a cake of soap from one of the towels. “Verbena,” he told her. “I’ll lay odds you thought a pirate’s soap was made of pig’s fat and woodash.”
Olivia couldn’t help laughing. “I suppose I did. But I don’t think you’re a proper pirate. You’re not bloodthirsty enough and you laugh too much. Pirates have black curling beards and they carry cutlasses in their teeth. Oh, and they drink a lot of rum,” she added.
“I for one prefer a decent claret and a good cognac,” Anthony said solemnly, shaking out a towel. “And I am a passable coiffeur, not to mention lady’s maid, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”
There seemed nothing for it. Olivia knelt beside the tub, the folds of the nightshirt billowing around her. Anthony draped a towel around her shoulders and scooped her hair off her neck, tossing it forward as she bent her head.
The hot water felt wonderful, but not as wonderful as his fingers moving gently across her scalp, cleverly avoiding the soreness that she had felt when she’d turned her head on the pillow. The scent of verbena filled the cabin, and the hot water washed through the thick black fall of her hair. Olivia’s eyelids drooped and she drifted in the warm scented hinterland behind her eyes.
“There, that should do it.” The sound of his voice was shocking in the silence. Olivia lifted her head hurriedly and water dripped down the back of her neck, soaking the collar of her makeshift gown.
“That wasn’t very clever,” Anthony observed, gathering her hair between his hands and wringing it out over the tub. He wrapped a towel turban-style around her head. “You’d better change that … that … whatwould you call what you’re wearing?” He regarded her quizzically.
“Your nightshirt,” Olivia responded, standing up slowly. “Maybe Adam’s finished my c-clothes now.”
“He’s busy cooking, but I have dozens of nightshirts. My aunt embroiders them for me. She has the strangest notions about me.” He opened the cupboard in the bulwark.
“You have an aunt?” Olivia exclaimed. “Pirates can’t have aunts.”
“Well, as far as I know, I wasn’t the result of immaculate conception, so this particular pirate does have one…. Ah, this one should do. As I recall, it has some particularly exquisite lacework on the sleeves.” He shook out another of the voluminous garments.
“And an emerald sash, I think, since we’re dressing for dinner.” He selected a rich green silk cravat. “You won’t need one for your hair this evening.”
“No,” Olivia agreed faintly. She was still trying to equate embroidering aunts with
Wind Dancer
’s master. “Where does your aunt live?”
“Not far away,” he responded casually and uninfor-matively, tossing the fresh nightshirt and sash onto the bed. He opened another cupboard and took out a wooden casket. Then he turned back to Olivia with a speculative air. “Do you wish to lie on the bed while I dress your leg? Or would you rather stand? I
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