Rogue's Hostage by Linda McLaughlin

shrug. "You may like washing in cold water, but I do not. I enjoy the luxuries civilization can provide, even such civilization as this." He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the room. "You may, of course, turn your back."
    "You have no honor."
    "So I have been told, madame. Many times."
    Mara bit off a retort and spun away from him. Certainly, she had no intention of watching, although she was not sure what difference it made, since she had already seen most of his anatomy.
    She flounced down on one of the bunks and resolutely turned away from the fire. Her hands were shaking, no doubt from anger, and she clenched them in her lap. She heard him chuckle, then the slosh of water as he got into the tub.
    In the quiet of the cabin, she was aware of every movement as he washed himself. Her errant imagination wondered what would it feel like to touch him, his skin slick and wet. From there, her thoughts veered to how it might feel to be touched by him, intimately, as a man touches his lover.
    She raised shaking hands to her hot cheeks. Heavens, what was wrong with her? It had been only a few weeks since she’d been widowed. But since then, her only constant, her only stability, her only reassurance had been Corbeau.
    In all that time, he had not tried to kiss her again, or take any other liberties. He still watched her, though, when he thought she wasn’t looking. Did he still want her? Would his mistress have an easier life than an unclaimed captive?
    Stop it, she told herself. There was no need to contemplate such a desperate measure. At least not yet.
    "You may turn around now, madame."
    Mara peeked over her shoulder and saw that he had finished his bath. Though he had donned a pair of red woolen breeches, he was still naked to the waist. Bent over the table, he squinted into a mirror as he attempted to shave off his beard.
    "I could do that for you," Mara said.
    "Ouch." Corbeau spun around to stare at her incredulously, a drop of blood on his chin where he’d cut himself. "Is that a joke, madame?"
    Mara stood and walked toward him. "I shaved my grandfather many times. As he grew older, his hands shook too much to do it himself."
    Corbeau rolled his eyes. "I’d have to be mad to put a razor in your hand, madame. No, thank you, I have no wish to slit my throat today."
    She flushed and looked away. "That was not my intention," she said softly.
    He made no reply as he finished shaving. Then he donned the rest of his uniform: a white shirt, scarlet waistcoat and blue woolen uniform coat.
    "I’m going to the commandant’s quarters to report in, now," he informed her.
    Mara stared at him and struggled to hide her surprise. Clean-shaven and wearing his uniform, he appeared, well, civilized. And more handsome than she had realized. She studied his lean, tanned face, the arrogant nose, and the heavy eyebrows that shadowed his eyes. His black hair, pulled back into a queue, shone like a raven’s wing.
    Dressed as he now was, she easily believed him the son of an aristocrat. He projected an aura of authority and discipline that was powerful yet reassuring. Had he looked like that when they’d met, she might not have been quite so terrified. Fool, she chided herself, remembering that he had been part of the raiding party that killed her husband. She resolved not to soften toward him.
    He called the two soldiers back inside to empty the tub, then refill it and the iron kettle. He handed Mara the soap, a clean towel, and his dressing gown. "You should have plenty of time to bathe while I’m gone. When I get back, I’ll take your clothes to the laundress. Bolt the door behind me," he ordered as he exited the room.
    Mara stared at the tub, yearning for the luxury of a bath. But this was her opportunity to escape. Resolutely she walked to the door and flung it open. Outside, several men stopped what they were doing to stare at her, and she realized that leaving might be a worse alternative. She slammed the door shut and bolted it.
    While