2 Chapter 2

“Wake up.” He shook his arm.

“Sir?” Simpson said immediately and stirred.

“You need a bath. I need to get you into the bath.”

“Bath?” Simpson sounded as though he had never heard of the word.

“Yes, a bath. You’re a bit worse for wear,” Oliver said with a smile.

Simpson began plucking at his shirt. “Bath,” he repeated and tried to sit up.

Oliver rocked back on his heels and pulled of his own coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. “Come,” he said and set about peeling the stinking garments from him. Bit by bit he revealed Simpson’s pale, wiry body. He was covered in bruises and his feet were blistered and raw. Emotion almost choked Oliver as he dumped the clothes in a pile. He should have tried harder to find him. Should have helped him. Made more effort. How could the man who saved his life be brought to this? It was unthinkable.

“Up you go,” he said, and standing between Simpson’s legs he took him under the arms and pulled him up. Simpson shook himself and managed to stand. He got into the bath with a little help and then sank into the heat and moaned. He sank lower and lower until his head was submerged and his boney knees poked out. When he came back up for air he stripped the water from his eyes, pushed his hair back, and looked up.

“Major Thornley?” he whispered, blue eyes wide.

“Hello.” It was all Oliver could think of to say.

Simpson nodded and laid his head against the bath. “Major Thornley,” he repeated as his eyes drooped.

Oliver cleared his throat and picked up the soap and washcloth that had been left. He dipped them in the water and lathered the soap up. “Come on, let me help.” He hesitated, and then applied the cloth with some vigour to Simpson.

“Ow,” he protested before pulling away.

Oliver bent and picked up another cloth and handed it to Simpson. “You can help, but you need to be clean before you get anywhere near my sheets.”

Simpson’s eyes widened. Fair lashes spiked with water framed wary eyes. “Your sheets?”

“Yes, you will be staying here tonight. Now lean forward.”

Simpson leaned forward and Oliver ran the cloth in wide, gentle strokes across the muscles of his back. Hard, wiry muscle that looked underfed and pale, but unspeakably beautiful. Heat from the water made his face warm but he continued smoothing the cloth over his skin, and then rubbed up onto his shoulders and down one arm. Oliver dipped the cloth and squeezed. The trickling water sounded loud between them. Simpson dipped the cloth in his hand, rubbed it on the soap, and scrubbed under his armpits and between them they lathered him from head to foot. Oliver was relieved to note that Simpson did not appear to be suffering with lice or any other kind of infestation, and when he moved to wash between his legs Oliver averted his gaze. When he turned back, Simpson’s head was lolling against the back of the bath, eyes closing.

“Here, let me wash your hair.”

“Hmm? I can do it.” He tried, but his arms didn’t seem to want to lift up.

“Drop your head under the water.”

Simpson sank and when he came back up Oliver lathered the soap through his hair. Simpson moaned softly and leaned into his touch. Oliver swallowed and gently washed the grime away until it felt soft and clean.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of there. You’re starting to wrinkle.”

Simpson managed a small smile and opened his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. For a moment, Oliver could not look away from those beautiful blue eyes and they stared at each other.

Oliver was the first to look away. “Give me a hand,” he said and set one arm around Simpson’s back. He managed to get him out of the bath but ended up almost as wet as Simpson was. He bundled the man in big towels and sat him next to the roaring fire. He smiled when Simpson pulled his knees up and curled into the chair. Oliver towelled the worst of the wet from himself and then his housekeeper arrived with plates of soft chicken and vegetables, bowls of steaming broth, and hot coffee. She had added a plate of macaroons. As she set up the table, Dixon returned armed with numerous bags of clothing.

“Mr. Farrah will be along as soon as he can,” Dixon said, depositing the bags.

“Good, good.” Farrah was his physician and a good man. He needed Simpson checking over. “Would you burn the old clothes?” he asked, indicating the fetid pile by the door.