when he posed the question. A shrub with small, spiky pink flowers appeared to hold his interest. The delicate petals lifted when he reached to touch them.
"No." Elinor shifted position so she could see his face. Why was he interested? She studied him, trying to guess his purpose. Did he feel as muddled about her as she did about him?
Basil glanced up. "Is something amiss?" She shook her head and he returned his attention to the bush. "Out of curiosity, if you were to fall in love, how do you picture your ideal man?"
Maybe she read his expression wrong, but Elinor thought he seemed relieved when she'd said she hadn't been in love. She wasn't sure what to make of his response and her mind wandered as Basil rolled the pink buds between his fingers in a slow caress. Elinor gave herself a mental shake and asked for clarification. "Are you asking how I picture him physically or what character traits are important to me?"
Basil waved his hand in the air as though it didn't matter "Start with the physical. How do you envision him?"
Two different answers came to mind and she paused to consider the choices. Keep the description generic or tell him the truth? The truth won out.
At first, she thought it better to gaze into the distance, be less obvious, more contemplative. But then, with a rare burst of bravado, she thought, hell, if I’m going to tell the truth, I may as well look straight into my vision's eyes.
"He should be tall. I like tall men. I'd like him well built, broad shouldered and strong. His face should be nice and this is important--” Elinor leaned toward Basil, thinking, hoping he’d be able to read between the lines. “He should look very masculine. Maybe, he'd even bear a less than perfect aquiline nose. Men who have soft features make me uncomfortable. I always suspect they'd be more attractive in a dress than me. I like dark hair, especially when it's long." She tapped her lips with a forefinger. Smiling, she said, "Oh, a nice bum would be a bonus."
Basil's soft laugh sounded almost shy and more than a little self-conscious as he touched a finger to his nose. He started to reply and hesitated, then said, "Ah...should we start to wend our way back?"
They turned away from the stream, leaving the wood to walk on the grassy field. Basil clasped his hands behind his back again but didn't say a word.
"What were you going to say?"
"Nothing."
"Not fair! I answered your question. Did my description upset you?" She hated having to ask.
"No, not at all. I'm a bit confused." Basil didn't elaborate and continued walking. When they were within sight of the house he stopped and faced her. "Does Sean Connery look like this man you described?"
"What--what?" The strange question came out of nowhere. "Yes. How do you know about Sean Connery?"
"I heard some women speak of him." Arching a brow, he narrowed his eyes at Elinor, "Some of the things they said were quite shameless."
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Well, you said your description fits this Connery fellow."
If only she could shake him until his teeth rattled. Then, when she had his attention, she'd tell him. Idiot, it fits your description too. Since that wasn't an option, she went with a noncommittal response. "It describes a lot of people."
"This Connery is a Scotsman. Do you prefer your ideal man a Scot?" he asked, eyes fixed on her.
Elinor caught on to the purpose of his question. "No. An Englishman would be more than fine with me.”
Neither moved. More than anything she wanted to touch him, touch his hair, his face, his mouth. Her gaze fell upon the scar over his neck. Dull white at the edge, the rest had acquired a slight pinkish sheen as some scars are wont to do.
She traced the length of it with her finger. It started at the base of his ear, curved down and ended at the hollow of his throat. How forceful the killing blow must have been to cut through his mail. Above, another scar perhaps three inches long ran straight across his
"No." Elinor shifted position so she could see his face. Why was he interested? She studied him, trying to guess his purpose. Did he feel as muddled about her as she did about him?
Basil glanced up. "Is something amiss?" She shook her head and he returned his attention to the bush. "Out of curiosity, if you were to fall in love, how do you picture your ideal man?"
Maybe she read his expression wrong, but Elinor thought he seemed relieved when she'd said she hadn't been in love. She wasn't sure what to make of his response and her mind wandered as Basil rolled the pink buds between his fingers in a slow caress. Elinor gave herself a mental shake and asked for clarification. "Are you asking how I picture him physically or what character traits are important to me?"
Basil waved his hand in the air as though it didn't matter "Start with the physical. How do you envision him?"
Two different answers came to mind and she paused to consider the choices. Keep the description generic or tell him the truth? The truth won out.
At first, she thought it better to gaze into the distance, be less obvious, more contemplative. But then, with a rare burst of bravado, she thought, hell, if I’m going to tell the truth, I may as well look straight into my vision's eyes.
"He should be tall. I like tall men. I'd like him well built, broad shouldered and strong. His face should be nice and this is important--” Elinor leaned toward Basil, thinking, hoping he’d be able to read between the lines. “He should look very masculine. Maybe, he'd even bear a less than perfect aquiline nose. Men who have soft features make me uncomfortable. I always suspect they'd be more attractive in a dress than me. I like dark hair, especially when it's long." She tapped her lips with a forefinger. Smiling, she said, "Oh, a nice bum would be a bonus."
Basil's soft laugh sounded almost shy and more than a little self-conscious as he touched a finger to his nose. He started to reply and hesitated, then said, "Ah...should we start to wend our way back?"
They turned away from the stream, leaving the wood to walk on the grassy field. Basil clasped his hands behind his back again but didn't say a word.
"What were you going to say?"
"Nothing."
"Not fair! I answered your question. Did my description upset you?" She hated having to ask.
"No, not at all. I'm a bit confused." Basil didn't elaborate and continued walking. When they were within sight of the house he stopped and faced her. "Does Sean Connery look like this man you described?"
"What--what?" The strange question came out of nowhere. "Yes. How do you know about Sean Connery?"
"I heard some women speak of him." Arching a brow, he narrowed his eyes at Elinor, "Some of the things they said were quite shameless."
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Well, you said your description fits this Connery fellow."
If only she could shake him until his teeth rattled. Then, when she had his attention, she'd tell him. Idiot, it fits your description too. Since that wasn't an option, she went with a noncommittal response. "It describes a lot of people."
"This Connery is a Scotsman. Do you prefer your ideal man a Scot?" he asked, eyes fixed on her.
Elinor caught on to the purpose of his question. "No. An Englishman would be more than fine with me.”
Neither moved. More than anything she wanted to touch him, touch his hair, his face, his mouth. Her gaze fell upon the scar over his neck. Dull white at the edge, the rest had acquired a slight pinkish sheen as some scars are wont to do.
She traced the length of it with her finger. It started at the base of his ear, curved down and ended at the hollow of his throat. How forceful the killing blow must have been to cut through his mail. Above, another scar perhaps three inches long ran straight across his
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