When he was finished, he turned to her. “If you need to use it, I’ll watch for the guard.”
She shook her head and then uttered a soft thank-you. “What did you call it? A fancy pot?”
“Aye. It’s…strange.”
She looked even more puzzled. “Interesting,” she said quietly.
It was that. He wished he’d had one at home. Another flash…a big house. A castle? But the image quickly faded. He didn’t know if he was remembering this place—it must be some sort of castle—or someplace else. “We’re not going anywhere tonight,” he said. “Might as well clean up a bit. I’m sure I don’t smell too good. They haven’t let me bathe for a while.” He’d been chained most of the time.
She glanced at the sink. “I probably don’t smell like flowers either.”
She smelled like heaven. “I’ll hold the blanket if you want to bathe first,” he said, inspecting the basket. He pulled out cloths and a bar of soap. “Look here. There’s another wee brush so you can clean your teeth.”
She gave him an odd look again. “You go first. You need to clean your wounds.”
It was awkward, but she held the blanket up for him. He tried to remove his shirt, but it was stuck to the cuts on his back. He could rip it off, but they would start bleeding again. He cursed softly as the shirt pulled at the dried blood and raw skin.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Aye. My shirt’s stuck to my back. I don’t want to reopen the wounds. Do you think you could help me?”
She lowered the blanket and put it on the bench. “I’ll have to wet the shirt to loosen it from your cuts.”
She ran the water until it was warm. A delightful thing, he thought, having warm water right out of a pipe. Even more delightful, her hands on his back as she put the wet cloth over the wounds, soaking his shirt. It stung, but her touch took his mind off the pain.
“I think it’s working.” She gently lifted the shirt away from his back in the places where it had been stuck. “You should be able to take it off now.”
He stretched, feeling the shirt freely move. “Aye. That does it.”
“Do you need help?” She glanced at the floor. “The wounds on your back need to be cleaned. I don’t think you can reach them.”
He swallowed and nodded. “That would be helpful.” Among other things. He turned his back and shrugged slowly out of his shirt, tossing it onto the bench next to the blanket.
“My God. What have they done to you?” She gently bathed one of the wounds. “What do they want? Usually a person is tortured to get information. Secrets.”
What would she know about torture? “If they wanted me to tell them secrets, they shouldn’t have stolen my memories. I don’t know anything to tell them.” Not even his name. Apparently it wasn’t Faelan as he’d been told.
It took several minutes. Long, aching, sweet minutes with his body feeling the closest thing to pleasure he’d felt in many a fortnight.
“There. That’s as good as I can do without a first aid kit.”
A what? He didn’t ask. He was busy trying to calm his body enough to turn. It wasn’t working. He reached for the blanket and held it in front of him. “Thank you.”
“You should finish up. You have more wounds to clean.”
He’d like for her to clean them all. Blimey, he’d let her wash every part of him. She took the blanket from him and put it back in place, and he resumed bathing. He removed his kilt and cleaned his face and the cuts on his body. When he’d gotten off most of the blood, he soaped up, washing his chest, belly, arms, and oxters before moving below the waist. He ran the cloth over his groin, thinking what it’d feel like if it was her hand. He didn’t stay there too long for fear that he’d embarrass himself.
The sound of the washcloth moving over his skin made Anna tingle in places she didn’t want to tingle. She turned her face, and a movement caught her eye. There was a small hole in the blanket. She’d seen lots of naked men. On the battlefield, forest or city, privacy was compromised. But this man…holy cow. He was like a beautiful painting that had been vandalized. Perfectly muscled hips and thighs and a sleek broad back, marred with bruises and cuts.
He turned slightly, and her breath caught. He was rubbing the soapy cloth over his groin. She quickly raised her gaze to the symbols arcing across his chest. Though they were marred by a couple of bruises—his chest seemed to have fared better than the rest of him—she was almost sure they were battle marks.
Battle marks had a kind of a presence about them, as if they were alive. And these made her hands tremble with the urge to touch them. She did look away then, keeping her eyes closed so she wasn’t tempted to find the hole again.
“That’s better,” he said, nudging the blanket down. His clothes were still dirty, but his skin was clean, and the swelling in his face was going down. He healed quickly. “I’ll hold it for you, if you’d like?”
She balked at the thought of undressing so near a strange man, especially one this hot, but after moving stones in the chapel and fighting the guard, she needed to clean up. It would take more than water to erase the feel of the guard straddling her. Watching his blood drain from his body might help.
After the prisoner raised the blanket high enough to block his face, she stripped off her dirty gown and panties and laid them beside her bra. She could hear him breathing on the other side of the blanket. Using the second washcloth and the bar of soap, she washed her face first, the warm water making her long for a bathtub. She washed her body next, hurrying as the man’s breath grew ragged. Holding the blanket at face level must be a strain with his body still weak. Or perhaps he’d also found the hole.
She sped through her routine, pleased to find basic toiletries—toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, and deodorant. What kind of place was this? Beat a man with a whip, then give him toothpaste and deodorant.
“I’m finished,” she said, and he dropped the blanket, his eyes glittering as he stared at her. He draped the blanket over his arm. “Do you want to sit?”
The stone bench was the only place to sit besides the floor, so they both sat on the bench, side by side. Anna shivered, and he handed her the blanket. “You take it. I’m not cold.”
He was lying. When his arm brushed hers, she could feel the chill of his skin. This place was like a freezer. How could it be so much colder here than it had been at Faelan and Bree’s? It felt more like January than early November. Was that part of his torture? Freeze him half to death?
“Thank you.” She wrapped it around her, leaving an edge free for him. “If we sit closer, we can share it.”
He nodded and scooted next to her. She could still smell the blood on his kilt and shirt, but his body smelled clean, male. It gave her the strangest sensation, sitting in near darkness with a man she didn’t know, who she suspected was a warrior, though he didn’t know it. Could he be Austin, the warrior from Canada who’d been attacked by vampires on the way to meet Angus? This place had vampires. Austin could have followed them here after the attack. But he didn’t sound Canadian. He sounded like a Scot. And while tattoos were popular, and it wasn’t uncommon to see a man in a kilt—less so in America—there were too many signs that he was a warrior. His appearance, his manner, the way he moved. And those marks. If they weren’t battle marks, why did she feel like they were whispering to her?
They sat side by side, wrapped in the blanket. His body was warm next to hers, making her sleepy. Unnaturally so. Had the guard put something in her food? She tried to imagine how it would have been for him, here alone, beaten, no memories, no answers, and no one to talk to except his tormentors. He must be strong, mentally as well as physically. “I don’t how you’ve survived being here.”