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Her vision blanked for an instant and her shoulder hit the hearth wall. Sliding down its rough surface, she sank into a huddle on the bench.
    She waited for her head to clear. She debated her situation, and with a heavy sigh gave up her pride. Forcing her hoarse voice as loud as it would go, she called his name.
    He came immediately, carrying two more buckets of water. He had known she would fail. He had been waiting.
    He set the water near the hearth. He walked over and sat beside her. Without saying a word, he began undressing her.

C HAPTER 3
    R HYS PULLED DOWN THE LACING of her gown. The crossing lines had probably once been silver ribbons, but now crude hide strips held the back together.
    He tried to remain uninterested, but it proved impossi ble. Her condition made his arousal especially pointless, but undressing her affected him anyway.
    Joan tried, too. Her expression chilled into something half stern, half sleepy, and very distant. Still, her embar rassment was palpable. And provocative.
    There was something practiced to her pose. He guessed that he was not the first man to disrobe her. That did not surprise him. She looked to be in her early twenties. It would be rare for a woman to reach that age without at least one man in her past.
    He decided to leave her in her shift so they could pre tend some modesty. Only the grey fabric gaped to reveal that she wore nothing underneath. A creamy stripe of skin glowed from her neck to the dimpled hollow at the base of her spine.
    “Hand me the towel,” she said, going very rigid.
    He passed it to her. Turning away, she lowered the gown from her shoulders and unfolded the linen to shield her breasts. He found himself facing an elegant back, slen der and lithe, with a subtle firmness that spoke of physical labor. It tapered nicely, then began a subtle flair at her hips. The bunched gown obscured the progress of those curves.
    He rose and helped her to stand. The tattered gown slid down. Its slippery descent revealed the rest. Nipped waist. Rounded hips and bottom. Shapely legs.
    His mouth went dry as her beauty unveiled in the can dlelight. The gaoler had been right. There were easier ways to get to heaven than this.
    She turned quickly, clutching the towel to her chest. Its thin fabric molded to her curves, and the lower edge flut tered along the top of her thighs. Stark nakedness would have been less erotic.
    She eyed him cautiously, alert to her vulnerability. But something else passed between them, too. It was in her eyes and her embarrassment and the vague parting of her lips. He knew women well enough to recognize the signs. Whatever else she thought or felt, she was not entirely in different, either.
    That made it harder. He suppressed the urge to splay his hand on the curve of her waist. Instead he lifted her lovely, smooth nakedness in his arms. “You do not have to be afraid. I am not unmoved, but I am not going to try to do anything about it.”
    She clutched and stretched the towel to be sure it cov ered the essentials. “Because you would lose the grace of being a Good Samaritan?”
    “Aye, and because you still smell.” He carried her over to the bath. “You have to put the towel aside now. We want it dry for later.”
    “Don't you have another?”
    “It is the only one here.”
    “Close your eyes then. Now, lower me in without looking.”
    “I do not think—”
    “Put me in and then go around behind me.”
    “I will try, but you must sit on the bottom and it is deep. Steady now … you are not light, and doing this blind … don't… hell.”
    Once Joan touched water she tried to release herself. In the confused grappling that followed, she thrashed, he grasped, she sank, and he fell. He ended up braced above her with his hands on the bottom of the bath.
    Water sloshed up to his armpits. Pretty breasts faced him a hand's span away. Soft and round and gently full. The tips were rose colored in the way of fair women. Rosy and tight. He did not bother