with.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “But I am not the miller’s daughter. I have never owned such simplicity. I do not live one minute without calculation.”
“Pretend I’m someone you can kiss.” His lips came down softly over hers. Holding back, brushing lightly. Hinting. The taste, the possibility, was enough to hold her while he retraced the path up her backbone and slipped the calluses and strength of his hand under her wet braid and enclosed the nape of her neck.
He muttered, “We’re both going to stop calculating for a minute.”
He kissed across her mouth, slowly and deliberately, as if this were exotic territory and he was exploring. As if this were the first time he’d ever kissed a woman and he was getting surprised.
The whole length of his body was persuasive against her. His cock, hard in his trousers, throbbed at the cradle of her belly. His hand on her was heavy as his strength. Light as if it were part of her. He stroked with the tips of his fingers, making circles on her skin like whirlpools in a stream of moving water.
He slipped the kiss into her mouth. Kissed rows of exploration, back and forth. Wrestled a new hold on the corner of her lip. She felt herself pulled gently into his mouth. Licked. Tasted.
“Oh, my,” he whispered. “My God.”
She kissed him back. She felt him fighting his reaction to her. She had this much power over him. He twitched, as if shocked, when her tongue ran across his tongue.
She closed her teeth gently over his lips, capturing him for an instant. His instant of surrender overwhelmed her. They captured each other, teeth, lips, tongue, back and forth.
“You are . . . I don’t know what you are.” He growled it in the deep of his throat.
She unraveled. A curious liquidity, warm and quivering, spread from her belly. She pulsed inside her skin.
One of the goldfish giants of the pond surfaced and fell back with a slap of the water.
He froze. His arms tightened around her. It was as if the corners of the earth folded inward. “They could come back, any minute. Anybody could come walking by. And I’ve left that damn boy free to plunder France. You make me stupid.”
“We make each other stupid.” She resented him. She was also annoyed at her own body.
He pushed away from her. “Put your clothes on. We have to leave.” Before he stomped off, he said, “We’ll talk later.”
S even
DOYLE DIDN’T MIND THE HEAT HIMSELF, AND GOD knew he didn’t plan to pamper the boy, but he hated to walk a woman through this mud.
The sky burned empty and pale blue. They went single file across a landscape of hedgerow and long fields. First him with Maggie, then Hawker and the animals. The boy had fallen back a ways owing to the number and quality of his ongoing discussions with the donkeys. Hawker was practicing what was beginning to be an extensive vocabulary of obscenity. He hitched his trousers up with a jerk and swaggered the way the mule boys did, enjoying himself, playing the Game as natural as breathing.
Maggie pushed the pace. Being determined about it. A woman with somewhere to go and something to do.
They were following the track that led to the Paris road. Maybe she was just getting well away from Voisemont and the people who knew her. But he thought she had herself a destination. It might be she was leading him straight to de Fleurignac.
The old man made the list. He knew who was slated to die. I find him. I take the list. And I do not get myself tangled up with his daughter.
Maggie lifted her face to the little wind that had come up and stood, eyes closed, drinking it in. She was dusty and sweaty. There was a smear of mud across her cheek. Her clothes were kitchen and cowshed wear. All that, and anyone with eyes could see what she was. Aristo.
Elegant as crystal. I keep thinking she’ll break, and she doesn’t.
You get to know somebody pretty well, slogging through French mud with them. Maggie was gold and grit. She set her clogs on the ruts and
“Yes.” She sighed. “But I am not the miller’s daughter. I have never owned such simplicity. I do not live one minute without calculation.”
“Pretend I’m someone you can kiss.” His lips came down softly over hers. Holding back, brushing lightly. Hinting. The taste, the possibility, was enough to hold her while he retraced the path up her backbone and slipped the calluses and strength of his hand under her wet braid and enclosed the nape of her neck.
He muttered, “We’re both going to stop calculating for a minute.”
He kissed across her mouth, slowly and deliberately, as if this were exotic territory and he was exploring. As if this were the first time he’d ever kissed a woman and he was getting surprised.
The whole length of his body was persuasive against her. His cock, hard in his trousers, throbbed at the cradle of her belly. His hand on her was heavy as his strength. Light as if it were part of her. He stroked with the tips of his fingers, making circles on her skin like whirlpools in a stream of moving water.
He slipped the kiss into her mouth. Kissed rows of exploration, back and forth. Wrestled a new hold on the corner of her lip. She felt herself pulled gently into his mouth. Licked. Tasted.
“Oh, my,” he whispered. “My God.”
She kissed him back. She felt him fighting his reaction to her. She had this much power over him. He twitched, as if shocked, when her tongue ran across his tongue.
She closed her teeth gently over his lips, capturing him for an instant. His instant of surrender overwhelmed her. They captured each other, teeth, lips, tongue, back and forth.
“You are . . . I don’t know what you are.” He growled it in the deep of his throat.
She unraveled. A curious liquidity, warm and quivering, spread from her belly. She pulsed inside her skin.
One of the goldfish giants of the pond surfaced and fell back with a slap of the water.
He froze. His arms tightened around her. It was as if the corners of the earth folded inward. “They could come back, any minute. Anybody could come walking by. And I’ve left that damn boy free to plunder France. You make me stupid.”
“We make each other stupid.” She resented him. She was also annoyed at her own body.
He pushed away from her. “Put your clothes on. We have to leave.” Before he stomped off, he said, “We’ll talk later.”
S even
DOYLE DIDN’T MIND THE HEAT HIMSELF, AND GOD knew he didn’t plan to pamper the boy, but he hated to walk a woman through this mud.
The sky burned empty and pale blue. They went single file across a landscape of hedgerow and long fields. First him with Maggie, then Hawker and the animals. The boy had fallen back a ways owing to the number and quality of his ongoing discussions with the donkeys. Hawker was practicing what was beginning to be an extensive vocabulary of obscenity. He hitched his trousers up with a jerk and swaggered the way the mule boys did, enjoying himself, playing the Game as natural as breathing.
Maggie pushed the pace. Being determined about it. A woman with somewhere to go and something to do.
They were following the track that led to the Paris road. Maybe she was just getting well away from Voisemont and the people who knew her. But he thought she had herself a destination. It might be she was leading him straight to de Fleurignac.
The old man made the list. He knew who was slated to die. I find him. I take the list. And I do not get myself tangled up with his daughter.
Maggie lifted her face to the little wind that had come up and stood, eyes closed, drinking it in. She was dusty and sweaty. There was a smear of mud across her cheek. Her clothes were kitchen and cowshed wear. All that, and anyone with eyes could see what she was. Aristo.
Elegant as crystal. I keep thinking she’ll break, and she doesn’t.
You get to know somebody pretty well, slogging through French mud with them. Maggie was gold and grit. She set her clogs on the ruts and
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