If he had been in her position with a way to stop an important man from being assassinated, he would have done the same thing. She’d bet if Lady Lisbeth were the operative, he would not have had a single issue with that. He’d probably praise her…and then reward her with his masterful prowess in bed. Jealousy warmed up in Bronwyn’s belly like a horde of angry bees.

Oh, stop. The duke doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the pickle you’re in and how to get out of it.

A silent housemaid brought in a tea cart, poured the steaming tea, and left as quietly as she’d come in, a red tinge on her cheeks as though she was uncomfortable or frightened…or given strict orders not to make eye contact or say a word. That was outside of enough. She was a lady! Bronwyn stiffened. Obviously, the maid was under instructions not to talk to the prisoner.

In fact, her nemesis was probably standing guard outside her stateroom door and glaring at anyone who came too close. Her stomach growled at the delicious scent. Mutinously, she sipped the tea and munched on the delicate sandwiches beside the teapot. At least he wasn’t trying to punish her with starvation. She would need her strength. For what, she didn’t know.

Cora gave an approving nod at the empty tray. “The bath is ready, my lady.”

Bronwyn stood and nearly ran into the antechamber. Stripping out of the grimy clothes, she almost wanted to instruct Cora to get rid of them, but they were the only suit of men’s clothing she’d packed. “Will you see that these are laundered, please, Cora? Without that meddlesome duke knowing, if possible?”

“Yes, my lady. I’ll go now while he’s with Lady Lisbeth.”

Bronwyn bit her lip hard, unwelcome images arising of the two of them lying in flagrante delicto in his former countess’s room, his beautiful lean body, laced with its network of scars and sinewy muscles, intertwined with hers.

Stop thinking about him. He’s not thinking about you.

Scowling, Bronwyn stepped into the steaming bath and winced at the ache in her muscles as she slipped under the cinnamon-and-apple-scented water. The singular scent of her soap brought a comfort she hadn’t realized she’d needed. Sighing with relief, she washed and rinsed her hair, and then leaned back for a moment. Heavens, she was sore. Sore in her back, her neck, her legs… She froze. Between them as well. Bronwyn flushed, a hand wandering down to cup her mound.