“Would you have… would you have a masculine response, then?” Olivia blurted the question, astonished at herself, but only on some distant plane.
Anthony smiled slowly. “Oh, yes,” he said softly. “Most definitely. But as I said, that’s not the point at this moment.”
He set the casket on the table and flipped open the lid. Then he hooked a stool over with his foot and sat down, reaching for Olivia’s hands. He drew her towards him and with his hands at her waist turned her so her back was to him.
“Now, why don’t you lift your skirts as high as you feel comfortable. I just need to be able to unfasten the bandage.”
“But it’s right at the top of my leg,” Olivia protested faintly, gathering her skirts in both hands and lifting them slowly. The breeze from the window was cool against the backs of her legs. “Is that high enough?”
“Just a little higher.”
“But… but you’ll see my bottom!”
“And it’s quite the prettiest little bottom,” he said, laughing. “No… no, don’t run away. I beg your pardon, but it was irresistible. I promise I won’t see anything I shouldn’t, but I do need to get at the pin.”
“Oh!” Olivia said in mingled disgust and resignation. She hauled her skirt up as a freshening gust of evening breeze blew cold into the cabin, raising goose bumps on her skin. Or at least, they could have been caused by the cold air, but then again, maybe not.
Anthony unfastened the pin that held the bandage closed and unwound it. His fingers brushed against her skin, reminding her vividly of the strange dream time, but now she was in full possession of her senses, and vibrantly aware. He touched the inside of her thigh and she jumped as if stung.
“Be still,” he said calmly, steadying her with his hands on her hips. “I can’t do this without touching you. I’m going to clean the wound now, and then dress it with salve and rebandage it. It’s healing nicely and tomorrow I should be able to take out the stitches.”
Olivia gritted her teeth and tried to pretend she was somewhere else, doing something quite other than standing here holding up her skirts for the intimate attentions of a male stranger.
But it was over at last. He wound the bandage once more tightly around her thigh and refastened the pin. “There, you can let your skirts down now.”
Olivia let the material slip back to her ankles and stepped away from his knees. She pulled the towel off her head, and her wet hair fell to the soaked clinging collar of the nightshirt. She shivered.
“Why don’t you wash and change now?” Anthony suggested. “There’s plenty of hot water left in the other pail. Just leave a little for me when you’re finished.” He strolled to the chart table as he spoke, adding cheerfully, “Piracy is devilishly dirty work.”
Olivia eyed the tub, the curl of steam from the pail. She ran a hand inside the sodden collar of her makeshift gown. She looked at the fresh clean raiment, the brilliant emerald sash. “I’ll be about fifteen minutes,” she said.
“Take your time.” He was bending over the chart table, the sextant in his hand.
“I’ll call when I’m finished,” she offered.
“Oh, I expect I’ll know when you’re finished,” he observed amiably.
Olivia swallowed. “Are you staying in here, then?”
“Of course. But I’ll keep my back to you. I give you my 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 his thighs the dark shadow of his sex.
“The human body is the greatest wonder of creation,” Anthony remarked in the tone of one instructing a pupil. “In all its manifestations, thin, fat, long, short. Every line, every curve, is beautiful.” He turned as he spoke, sponging his torso with the soaped towel that Olivia had used.
Olivia knew a challenge when she heard one. She refused to look away and indeed she couldn’t have dragged her eyes from this perfect example of the human form if she’d wanted to.
Every inch of him had been touched with the sun. Fair hair clustered around his nipples, cloaked his sex. He stood naked before her, alone in this cabin, and yet she realized with a shock of what could only be dismay that he was not aroused.