She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his shoulder, feeling his hard young body pressed against hers. She wanted to keep him here beside her like this forever, and she was afraid because she knew she could not. After a minute he released her and said in a rough voice, “We’d better be starting back.”
The following day it rained, a soft drizzling rain that held off at times. Arthur read history in the library with Merlin in the morning and then went to look for Morgan. She wasn’t in the house or in the herb garden and so he took a pony and went out to search all their usual haunts. She wasn’t at the tree house. She wasn’t watching the carpenter or the blacksmith. She wasn’t in the valley. The air was heavy and gray with mist as Arthur turned back toward the villa. He was halfway home when the drizzle turned into a heavy rain. The storehouse where they kept the grain was near, so he took shelter there, bringing his pony in and tying it up. He had been in the barn for five minutes when the door opened again and Morgan came in.
She recognized his pony immediately. “Arthur?” she called.
His head appeared over the side of the loft. “Here,” he answered. “I was looking for you. Where were you?”
“Oh, here and there,” she answered vaguely, and began to climb up to the loft to join him. Arthur had made himself comfortable on a nest of old sacks. It was dim up under the roof and it was not until she sat down beside him that he realized how wet she was.
“Morgan!” He was half-laughing, half-concerned. “You’re soaked!”
“It’s raining,” she replied. “Hand me one of those sacks and I’ll wrap it around myself.”
He did as she requested and she draped the sack, shawlwise, around her shoulders. She shivered and he reached an arm around her and drew her against him. Her head fell onto his shoulder.
The rain beat on the roof of the barn. Below them they heard the pony snort. The smell of grain filled their nostrils. When he bent his head to find her mouth, she was waiting for him.
Their kissing had become expert over the last month, but there was something between them now that had not been there before. There’s everything I want, everything I’m ready for, he had said to her yesterday, and she had understood what he meant. She ran her hands up and down his back, feeling the hard young muscles. The heat of his body warmed her own chilled flesh.
“Do you want to take off your wet gown?” His voice was scarcely recognizable to her. She said yes and with her own hands pulled the wet material over her head.
He touched her with wonder. Her skin was like silk under his rough, callused fingers. Passion came up in him, stroke after stroke, undeniable, like the clanging of a great bronze bell within. She was so soft . . . the force within him so irresistible. He leaned over her and looked into her face. She put her arms around his neck and his heart blazed up in a flame of joy. She was so lovely, she was such a bliss of release . . . she was his love.
He hurt her, but she didn’t mind. She nestled against him, listening to the slowing beat of his heart, the quieting of his breathing, and was fiercely glad that she had been able to do this for him.
The rain beat steadily on the roof of the storehouse, and they lay in one another’s arms and were at peace.
At dinner Merlin and Ector talked about the new Saxon offensive, and Arthur, who would ordinarily have listened closely, scarcely heard a word they said. His whole being was concentrated instead on the girl who sat across the table from him. Ector and Merlin might have been ghosts, so unreal and insubstantial did they seem to him now.
Ector broke off to say something to Morgan, and she smiled, showing him the mask of a happy and unconcerned child. As she turned away from Ector, her eyes met Arthur’s. The look they exchanged was not childlike at all.
Merlin said something. Then, with a touch of exasperation: “Arthur. I am
The following day it rained, a soft drizzling rain that held off at times. Arthur read history in the library with Merlin in the morning and then went to look for Morgan. She wasn’t in the house or in the herb garden and so he took a pony and went out to search all their usual haunts. She wasn’t at the tree house. She wasn’t watching the carpenter or the blacksmith. She wasn’t in the valley. The air was heavy and gray with mist as Arthur turned back toward the villa. He was halfway home when the drizzle turned into a heavy rain. The storehouse where they kept the grain was near, so he took shelter there, bringing his pony in and tying it up. He had been in the barn for five minutes when the door opened again and Morgan came in.
She recognized his pony immediately. “Arthur?” she called.
His head appeared over the side of the loft. “Here,” he answered. “I was looking for you. Where were you?”
“Oh, here and there,” she answered vaguely, and began to climb up to the loft to join him. Arthur had made himself comfortable on a nest of old sacks. It was dim up under the roof and it was not until she sat down beside him that he realized how wet she was.
“Morgan!” He was half-laughing, half-concerned. “You’re soaked!”
“It’s raining,” she replied. “Hand me one of those sacks and I’ll wrap it around myself.”
He did as she requested and she draped the sack, shawlwise, around her shoulders. She shivered and he reached an arm around her and drew her against him. Her head fell onto his shoulder.
The rain beat on the roof of the barn. Below them they heard the pony snort. The smell of grain filled their nostrils. When he bent his head to find her mouth, she was waiting for him.
Their kissing had become expert over the last month, but there was something between them now that had not been there before. There’s everything I want, everything I’m ready for, he had said to her yesterday, and she had understood what he meant. She ran her hands up and down his back, feeling the hard young muscles. The heat of his body warmed her own chilled flesh.
“Do you want to take off your wet gown?” His voice was scarcely recognizable to her. She said yes and with her own hands pulled the wet material over her head.
He touched her with wonder. Her skin was like silk under his rough, callused fingers. Passion came up in him, stroke after stroke, undeniable, like the clanging of a great bronze bell within. She was so soft . . . the force within him so irresistible. He leaned over her and looked into her face. She put her arms around his neck and his heart blazed up in a flame of joy. She was so lovely, she was such a bliss of release . . . she was his love.
He hurt her, but she didn’t mind. She nestled against him, listening to the slowing beat of his heart, the quieting of his breathing, and was fiercely glad that she had been able to do this for him.
The rain beat steadily on the roof of the storehouse, and they lay in one another’s arms and were at peace.
At dinner Merlin and Ector talked about the new Saxon offensive, and Arthur, who would ordinarily have listened closely, scarcely heard a word they said. His whole being was concentrated instead on the girl who sat across the table from him. Ector and Merlin might have been ghosts, so unreal and insubstantial did they seem to him now.
Ector broke off to say something to Morgan, and she smiled, showing him the mask of a happy and unconcerned child. As she turned away from Ector, her eyes met Arthur’s. The look they exchanged was not childlike at all.
Merlin said something. Then, with a touch of exasperation: “Arthur. I am
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