He moved quickly behind Rosie and took the towel from her limp fingers. He dried her with considerable speed. She tried to squirm away from his vigorous ministrations.

“Soft, my lord! First ye cook me, then ye flay me. Ouch!”

Andrew murmured soothing nonsense. Rosie’s loud protests subsided into small kittenish sounds. He gentled his touch, patting her across her shoulders, down her lovely back and around her delicious bottom. He enjoyed touching her soft curves through the damp cloth. Giving Rosie this bath had been worth every groat he had paid that abominable villain.

Rosie leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. Her damp golden hair smelled of roses and almonds. Andrew slipped his arm around her waist. He suspected that she would not protest if he chose to take her straight to his bed. He glanced at the linen bedcovers that were turned down so invitingly. After all, it was what she expected him to do.

Andrew steeled his resolve and banished the tempting idea before it grew to full flower in his imagination. He had never used his wealth to buy either a man’s good opinion or a woman’s favor, and he refused to begin now. He hugged Rosie as if she were a beloved daughter—the child he had never had. He reminded himself again that he needed her goodwill to win his madcap wager.

Just then Rosie looked up at him. The candlelight made her green eyes luminous. “If ye do it now, I will get your fine bed all wet.”

Andrew put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Rosie, my sweet, we are not going to swive now.”

She regarded him with that soul-plumbing stare. “Ye want to,” she observed in a soft tone. “I can see it in your eyes. Am I not clean enough for ye yet?”

Andrew framed her lovely face in his hands and traced her high cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. “Aye, Rosie. You are as clean as an angel’s wing, but I have other plans for you.”

She stepped away from him and drew the damp towel tighter around herself. “Ah, ha! Now I begin to understand. Ye have different tastes. I have heard that there are men who like to hear a girl scream in pain afore they are aroused. Trust me, my lord, I will scream this bloody tent down to please ye, but…” She paused, gulping for breath, then folded her hands as if in prayer. “I beseech ye for the love of God do not beat me.”

Her plea took him aback. How could she say that when he had already told her how much he hated to see the bruises on her young skin? “Rosie, I have no intention of beating you, nor do I wish to hear you scream. That behavior is not to my taste either. Trust me. Please?”

Rosie lifted her chin. “Then what are ye a-going to do with me now that I have no dirt and no clothes?” She took another step backward, narrowly missing the tub of dirty water.

The poor girl looked like a hunted doe. Instead of trying to placate her fears with more words, Andrew turned to the nearest coffer, opened the lid and drew out one of his plainer shirts.

“Will this garment suffice for the time being, my lady?”

Rosie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Haint ever been a lady, but that is the finest-looking shirt I ever did see.”

He waved it back and forth. “Tis yours, Rosie. Take it. Put it on.”

Like a spark of summer lightning, she reached out and snatched it from his fingers. In one fluid movement, she dropped it over her head as she let the wet towels fall to the rug. The hem fell just above her dimpled knees. Andrew tied the neck laces high above her collarbones.

Rosie ran her hand over the ivory lawn material. “Tis like wearing a spider’s web,” she whispered. “Haint ever had so fine a shift.”

Andrew resisted his latest impulse to kiss her. Instead, he draped his red cape over her shoulders to ward off both the night chill and his squire’s lusty gaze.

Then he stepped to the middle of the tent and bellowed, “Are you still out there, Jeremy?”

“Aye, my lord,” the boy replied, “together with your cooling supper.”

Andrew winked at Rosie. “Well, maltworm! Bring it in!”

A cloud of succulent aromas followed the squire into the tent.

Rosie nearly swooned when she smelled the delicious mixture of roast chicken, warm yeast bread and a cinnamon-spicy scent that she couldn’t quite place. It smelled heavenly. Her stomach rumbled with her hunger. She longed to snatch the huge covered platter out of the boy’s hands, but Andrew intercepted her and guided her to a stool.

Jeremy cast her a quick glance through the shaggy fringe of his dark bangs. His jaw dropped. Rosie pulled the cape across her bare knees.

Sir Andrew took a comb and began to pull it through her tangled locks. “Mind the platter, clodpate,” he growled at the speechless boy. “I much prefer to take my supper off a table than off the floor.”

Jeremy gaped at Rosie. She returned his penetrating stare.

Sir Andrew chuckled while he worked on a particularly stubborn snarl. “You remind me of a goggle-eyed turbot, Jeremy. Have you never seen a lady with her hair unbound before?”