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Just as they departed, Jeremy pushed a round wooden tub into the tent. To Rosie, it looked no bigger than the wash tub she had slaved over in the scullery of Quince’s bawd house in Bankside. It was certainly too small for her, much less for the two of them. She glanced at Sir Andrew.

“Haint ever had a bath in my life before,” she murmured.

Sir Andrew opened one of his coffers. “That is quite obvious, my dear.” He took out several small bottles and lined them up on the table.

Jeremy poked his head and shoulders inside the tent. He carried a wooden bucket full of water. A curl of steam wafted from it. Without a word Sir Andrew took the bucket, poured its contents into the tub, then returned the bucket to his servant. Jeremy disappeared only to reappear a minute later with another bucketful. Rosie chewed her thumbnail.

Sir Andrew glanced at her. “You spoke, sweetheart?”

“Ye want to scald me like a goose for plucking.”

Andrew chuckled as he emptied the contents of one of the bottles into the hot water. “Tis an interesting simile, but I doubt you will cook in this broth. By the time my creeping squire and his minions have filled this tub, the temperature will be merely warm.”

Jeremy reappeared with two more brimming buckets. Rosie eyed the tub as if it might suddenly attack her. Sir Andrew removed his short gold brocade vest and stepped out of his trunks, leaving him clad only in his shirt, his bright stockings and the most unusual codpiece Rosie had ever seen. Red silk tassels hung from each of its three corners. Sir Andrew noticed her fascination. He cleared his throat.

“Is something amiss?” he asked with a wide smile.

Rosie dropped her gaze to her toes. “Nay, my lord,” she murmured. “I was just wondering why ye…that is…what manner of…A pox upon it, my lord! Why do ye truss yourself up like a mummer at a fair?”

Instead of striking her, Sir Andrew threw back his head and roared with laughter. “How refreshing you are in this old world, sweetheart! My attire is all the fashion in Italy and France, though, in truth, many Englishmen would rather die than wear such finery.”

Rosie eyed the intriguing apparel. “Then why do ye?”

Sir Andrew sprinkled some shredded herbs into the water before he answered. “Tis my own fancy and conceit, I warrant. And to amaze the ladies. Confess it— aren’t you amazed?”

She nodded. “Beyond belief, my lord.” She tried not to stare at the dancing tassels. They made her heart skip in the most wanton manner. “Are ye going to do it now, my lord?”

His eyes twinkled with pure mischief. “That depends on what it is.” He unwrapped a waxy green tablet from a piece of linen and sniffed it with appreciation. “Ah! The finest milled soap this side of Castile.”

Jeremy returned with yet more water. By now the tub looked almost too full. Sir Andrew nodded to the boy. “Good! Now away with you, my sprite. Find us something edible in the cooks’ tent. Spend an hour, and do not reenter until I call you.”

Jeremy bowed his head, then turned on his heel. He gave Rosie a nasty smirk. “Methinks you are in a fine pickle now, wench.”

Sir Andrew pointed to the entrance. “Peace, knave! Such carping is not commendable. Begone! And tie down the flap behind you.”

Black terror engulfed Rosie. She was now alone with the man who presumed her virginity. She touched the hidden vial of blood. “Are we going to do it now?” she repeated.

An easy smile played at the corners of his lips. “If it means taking a bath, you will do that now. If it means that I take my pleasure with you, the answer is—not yet.”

She released her pent-up breath.

He arched his brow. “Take off your clothes,” he murmured.

Fury almost choked Rosie. The handsome peacock had lied—just like all the knaves in her life. “But ye said—”

Sir Andrew snapped his fingers, though he continued to smile warmly at her. “Hurry, my sweet, before the water cools.”

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Rosie stood up. She was careful not to move off her allotted piece of muslin. She untied her skirt and allowed the ragged garment to fall around her feet.

Sir Andrew cocked his head. “Everything.” He opened another chest and took out a comb, a brush and several more bottles.

Rosie wet her dry lips. “What are ye going to do with me, my lord?”

He grinned. “I am going to give you the most thorough scrubbing of your life.”

She fumbled with the laces at her neckline.

He straightened up. “Do you have a troublesome knot?”

Rosie blew her hair out of her eyes. “Tis no matter. We can do it with my shift on, my lord.”

Slowly he shook his head. “Not in my tub. Now, off with it. Every last revolting stitch you have on.”

Rosie pursed her lips. “Ye want me to strip naked with ye standing there a-watching me?” He appeared to ponder the question. She thought she had said it plain enough.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, that is the very nut and core of it. I do. Perchance, you will recall that I have paid a small fortune for that very privilege, Mistress…What did you say your name was?”

She lifted her head with as much pride as she could muster. “Tis Rosie, so please ye, my lord.”

He flourished a deep bow. The red silk tassels below his waist swayed with erotic abandon. “I am struck near speechless by your presence, Mistress Rosie. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Sir Andrew Ford, the miracle worker.” He bowed again.

Rosie stared at him with a mixture of bewilderment and apprehension. She was trapped alone with a charming lunatic.

Sir Andrew softened his expression. “I do but jest, Rosie. Tis my fashion. Now, for the love of warm water, will you please undress—or shall I do it for you?”

“Nay!” Rosie loosened the bandstring that held her shift together, but she clutched the material to her bosom before it slipped off her shoulders. “I have nothing else on underneath this, my lord.”

He held out his hand to her. Cheerful expectation deepened the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.

“Delighted to hear that, Rosie!”