top of the stairs, with my head in the clouds, about to come down with not a thought in my head about what my feet were doing, as he was bounding up them, as easy, confident, and graceful as a young tomcat strutting on the prowl. I gasped in surprise and stumbled, my foot missing the next step and losing its slipper. He caught me before I fell, and from the safety of his arms, I watched my little black shoe tumble down to the bottom of the stairs. Closing my eyes, I murmured a quick prayer of thanks. That could
so
easily have been
me
falling downstairs, my bones and head banging and jarring against every step.
He clutched me close. Without the metal breastplate, I could feel how muscular and firm his chest was, and he could feel the soft fullness of my breasts.
“Safe in my arms …
beloved
!” he whispered, his breath hot against my face as his lips grazed my blush-scorched cheek and slid down to my neck. “You should be more careful, Buttercup”—that was the first time he ever called me that dear, special name—“this is far too beautiful a neck to break.”
Then, with a smile, he put me from him, holding me at arm’s length, gazing at me in a sort of dazed wonderment; then he blinked, gave his head a little shake as if to clear it, and pressed a kiss onto my brow before he turned and bounded down to retrieve my slipper. He was back in a trice, kneeling on the stairs before me to lift the hem of my gown, and, encircling my ankle in a caressing hand, he boldly bent to press a kiss onto my foot, before he put my shoe back where it belonged.
“I like a lass who is as bold as brass and dares to wear red stockings!” He grinned up at me, then stood and folded my arm through his.
“You thought me a light-skirt today, the kind of maid any man may tumble,” I said, frowning a little in mock rebuke as, arm-in-arm, we continued down to the Great Hall to dine.
“Such a woman as any man may tumble can hardly be called a
maid
in the
true
sense of the word.” He smiled at me. “All I know is that you struck me like the first sunbeam does a man coming out of a dark cave, and I wanted to be close to you, to bask in your golden beauty and be warmed by you. And when you ran away from me, your little naked feet were like a pair of white doves flying away from me, and I wished with all my heart that I were a hawk so I could soar and pounce and bring you back to me”—he paused, turned me in his arms, and pressed me close to his chest again—“back into my arms again, Amy …
beloved
!” And, again, he kissed me in a way that lit such a burning, raging fever in my blood, I thought it would scald me senseless.
Such was the way that Robert courted me; he left me breathless and burning and too dazzled and dumb to speak. He must have at times thought me a pretty mute or a starry-eyed simpleton with nary a brain in my skull. It seems to me now, upon reflection, that only after we were married did I really learn to speak; it was as if wedlock untied the knots in my tongue.
The bed of buttercups by the river became our trysting place. We used to lie there and kiss, caress, hold each other, and dream of the life we would make together, the golden future that awaited us as husband and wife. I imagined the future unfurling before us like a road paved with gold, glowing brilliantly in the sun, which we would walk down together hand-in-hand, confident, brave, and sure in our love, to face whatever lay before us, come what may. And one day he fastened round my neck an amber heart, the rich golden colour of honey, suspended from a cord of braided black silk. “Here is my heart, beloved,” he said, “so that even when we are apart, you will know my heart is always with you. And as these flecks and leaves and tiny creatures, these little bits of nature’s flotsam, are caught, captured, frozen in time forevermore inside it, so shall my love for you remain always as true and ardent as it is at this very moment; let this token
so
easily have been
me
falling downstairs, my bones and head banging and jarring against every step.
He clutched me close. Without the metal breastplate, I could feel how muscular and firm his chest was, and he could feel the soft fullness of my breasts.
“Safe in my arms …
beloved
!” he whispered, his breath hot against my face as his lips grazed my blush-scorched cheek and slid down to my neck. “You should be more careful, Buttercup”—that was the first time he ever called me that dear, special name—“this is far too beautiful a neck to break.”
Then, with a smile, he put me from him, holding me at arm’s length, gazing at me in a sort of dazed wonderment; then he blinked, gave his head a little shake as if to clear it, and pressed a kiss onto my brow before he turned and bounded down to retrieve my slipper. He was back in a trice, kneeling on the stairs before me to lift the hem of my gown, and, encircling my ankle in a caressing hand, he boldly bent to press a kiss onto my foot, before he put my shoe back where it belonged.
“I like a lass who is as bold as brass and dares to wear red stockings!” He grinned up at me, then stood and folded my arm through his.
“You thought me a light-skirt today, the kind of maid any man may tumble,” I said, frowning a little in mock rebuke as, arm-in-arm, we continued down to the Great Hall to dine.
“Such a woman as any man may tumble can hardly be called a
maid
in the
true
sense of the word.” He smiled at me. “All I know is that you struck me like the first sunbeam does a man coming out of a dark cave, and I wanted to be close to you, to bask in your golden beauty and be warmed by you. And when you ran away from me, your little naked feet were like a pair of white doves flying away from me, and I wished with all my heart that I were a hawk so I could soar and pounce and bring you back to me”—he paused, turned me in his arms, and pressed me close to his chest again—“back into my arms again, Amy …
beloved
!” And, again, he kissed me in a way that lit such a burning, raging fever in my blood, I thought it would scald me senseless.
Such was the way that Robert courted me; he left me breathless and burning and too dazzled and dumb to speak. He must have at times thought me a pretty mute or a starry-eyed simpleton with nary a brain in my skull. It seems to me now, upon reflection, that only after we were married did I really learn to speak; it was as if wedlock untied the knots in my tongue.
The bed of buttercups by the river became our trysting place. We used to lie there and kiss, caress, hold each other, and dream of the life we would make together, the golden future that awaited us as husband and wife. I imagined the future unfurling before us like a road paved with gold, glowing brilliantly in the sun, which we would walk down together hand-in-hand, confident, brave, and sure in our love, to face whatever lay before us, come what may. And one day he fastened round my neck an amber heart, the rich golden colour of honey, suspended from a cord of braided black silk. “Here is my heart, beloved,” he said, “so that even when we are apart, you will know my heart is always with you. And as these flecks and leaves and tiny creatures, these little bits of nature’s flotsam, are caught, captured, frozen in time forevermore inside it, so shall my love for you remain always as true and ardent as it is at this very moment; let this token
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