Kissed by Shadows by Jane Feather

ribs, the little grove wavered around her, and for a ghastly moment she thought she was going to be sick again. Then everything settled down. The trees became their usual still and sturdy shapes and her heart slowed.
    Pippa shook her hair back, wishing that she had something with which to tie it. Unbound hair had seemed so right for the day's casual entertainment, and it went so well with her simple low-necked gown of primrose yellow silk that she had fancied had a milkmaid look to it with its puffed and banded sleeves and lace ruching. But when she had dressed that morning she had not given a thought to the difficulties of alfresco nausea.
What price vanity?
she thought with a grim internal smile.
    “Can I get you something?” Lionel asked, his gaze searching her face. She was still very pale, and her nose seemed pinched, longer and thinner than it actually was. Her freckles stood out as if they were on stalks, and her eyes looked bruised. Despite the elegant gown and the perfect circlet of pearls at her throat she looked as scrawny and pathetic as a half-starved waif.
    Pippa finally looked up at him. His smile was as sweet and his gaze as compassionate as ever it had been. It drew her to him, seemed to enfold her, offering safety, and something else . . . something paradoxically dangerous.
    She found that she was no longer embarrassed. “Bread helps,” she said. “Plain bread.”
    “I'll bring you some right away. Rest over here.” He took her arm and led her to a fallen tree trunk. “Sit there, I'll be back in a minute.”
    Pippa obeyed without a murmur. There was something about Lionel Ashton that made the idea of withstanding him quite impossible to imagine. But she was feeling a little weak, she told herself, so it was hardly surprising.
    She looked down at his handkerchief that she held scrunched in her hand and thought vaguely that she must give it to Martha to launder before she gave it back to him. Her skin felt clammy and she took her own lavender-scented handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her temples.
    Lionel returned with a thick slice of barley bread and a leather flagon. He sat beside her on the tree trunk and gave her the bread.
    Pippa broke off a piece of crust and ate it slowly. The effect was instant. Her color came back as the hollow residue of nausea disappeared. She ate the rest of the bread slowly, savoring each crumb and not questioning the intimacy of the companionable silence that had settled over them. A ray of sunlight pierced the leaves above and struck the back of her neck, its warmth sending waves of relaxation down her spine.
    “Drink some of this.” He held the flagon out to her.
    Pippa was startled by the sound of his voice. It seemed an eternity since she had heard anything but the rustle of a squirrel and the twitter of a bird.
    She shook her head. “No . . . no, I thank you. I find I don't care for wine at the moment.”
    “This is mead. I think you will find it strengthening.” He continued to hold out the flagon.
    Pippa took it, wondering at her newfound docility. It was not that she was ordinarily stubborn or unreasonable, but she tended to have a mind of her own. Now she seemed to have become as wobbly and unformed as an unset quince jelly. The comparison brought an involuntary chuckle to her lips.
    “That's a delightful sound,” her companion approved. “Take a drink now.”
    Pippa put the flagon to her lips and swallowed. He was right. Where wine these days had an acid metallic taste that turned her stomach, the mead was pure honey, soothing her belly, flowing warm to the tips of her fingers.
    “I never thought to try mead,” she said, handing him back the flagon.
    “I have some experience of pregnant women,” he offered, putting the stopper back into the neck of the flagon.
    Pippa stared at him, shocked at the casual statement. “Your wife . . . you have children?”
    “No.” It was a flat negative and she realized that it didn't encourage further