The arrival of the Earl of Oxbridge and his lady at the George and Dragon caused more excitement than the freak show with the pig faced lady. Ned Briarly, the peddler who had found them limping at the side of the road and given them a lift to the village, basked in the reflected glory and didn't have to pay for a drink for the rest of the week.
The Earl lived up to everyone's expectations of what a real life Earl would be like. Even dripping wet and supporting a lady so cold she was turning blue, he exuded authority. He demanded that a roaring fire be set in their best room, that a hip bath and a dozen buckets of hot water should be prepared, that wine and food should be brought up and that the local magistrate should be called to deal with the highwaymen who had robbed them.
Robert himself couldn't care less what the locals thought. All he wanted was to get Clara warm again. Her lips were turning blue and her teeth were chattering so hard he feared she'd break them.
Once inside, he dismissed all the servants, tested the water in the hip bath, and stripped Clara. The tapes on her dress had tightened into knots, so he just ripped it off her. She didn't utter a word of protest, which worried him more.
He picked her up and put her down in the bath. She squealed in protest. "Too hot. I'm burning," she said.
"It's luke warm, not hot at all. You are so cold. Sit down and let it take the chill out of you."
She did. When she was lying back against the linen covered edge of the bath, he picked up a bucket of hot water and carefully poured that in. Then he did the same again with a second bucket. Her teeth still chattered but her skin was beginning to pinken. He poured her some wine, then took the hot poker from the fire and plunged it into the tankard. When the wine was hot, he handed it to her. While she was drinking, he more hot water to her bath.
She handed him back the empty tankard. "I shouldn't be drinking in the bath."
It was the first sensible thing she had said since they crawled out of the river, but he frowned at her. "Yes, you should. You need to get warm again." Robert refilled it with more hot wine and handed it back to her. "Drink it all." She obeyed, and he poured in another bucket of hot water.
"You do know you're committed now?" he said. "You've just allowed me to claim you as my lady in front of the whole town of Newbridge without a single protest. You have to marry me now."
She choked, and he caught her tankard before it could spill into the bath. She glared at him. "You're relentless. Do you ever give up?"
"Not when there's something I want. And I want you." He took the tankard out of her hand and refilled it. Her skin was now bright red.
"What about Isabelle?" she asked in the most uncertain voice he had ever heard from her.
"That bitch!" He poured himself some wine, opened his coat and sat on the floor beside her.
To his consternation, her eyes filled with tears. "Clara, what's wrong? I didn't mean to distress you."
She tried to wipe the tears with the hand holding the tankard. "You're a big, stupid," she paused, searching for the word, "MAN. And I thought you were in love with Isabelle."
"Does this mean you could love me a little?"
"I have for a long time, you overbearing oaf, and I knew you didn't love me." He leaned over and kissed her. Her mouth opened eagerly for him and she put the arm not holding the tankard around his neck to pull him closer. She tasted of wine and passion and he couldn't resist deepening the kiss. It was like coming home.
Only the chill of her skin stopped him hauling her out of the bath and into his bed. He broke off, and fetched another bucket of hot water.
"Look," he exclaimed. "Your breasts are floating."
She glared at him. "And this is why you are still single at the age of thirty six."
He laughed, then pulled off his sodden boots and coat. "That's better," he said, flexing his shoulders now that they were free of the weight of the wet wool. The heat from the fire immediately warmed him. He opened the top of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. Clara watched with appreciation.
He found a wash cloth and soap. "Lie back and relax, I'm going to wash you." He lathered the cloth and started at her feet, carefully washing each toe and massaging as he went.
She sighed and closed her eyes. Robert moved onto her calf and was smoothed the washcloth up and down. The water was almost at the top of the bath, so Robert scooped out a bucketful to make room for more hot water. Then he started to wash her arms. He couldn't resist brushing a kiss into the crook of her elbow.
He told her to scoot down in the bath so that he could wash her hair. He spent a long time lathering it and rubbing the river out of her hair.
"I feel guilty letting you look after me like this," Clara said.
"Relax. I like looking after you. It makes me feel all big and strong and manly."
"We wouldn't want you to feel small and womanly. By all means, proceed." Clara relaxed into his attentions.
"So why was he trying to kill me?" she asked suddenly.
Robert winced. "My fault, I'm afraid. He saw the sketch I drew of you."
She flinched. "The one with no clothes?"
"I'm afraid so. It was obvious that we were intimate." He stopped, struck. "Oh damn, he must have seen the Special Licence as well, and knew I was going to marry you."
She sat bolt upright in the bath, sloshing water over the sides. "The what?" she demanded.
"The Special Licence. I didn't tell you about that?" Robert tried to look innocent. From the fury in Clara's silver eyes, it wasn't working, so he picked up a bucket. "Close you eyes while I rinse your hair," and he poured it over her.'
She spluttered, pushed the dripping hair away from her face. "No, you never mentioned anything about a Special Licence. You, sir, are entirely too high handed."
"Robert. We're gone past formalities. Or perhaps you should call me Roberta, since I'm now a lady's maid." He soaped the cloth and began a soothing rub on her back.
She narrowed her eyes at him, but allowed him to continue his ministrations. "He saw a Special Licence," she prompted.
