bed. Brian had fallen into an uneasy slumber, tossing restlessly on his blanket. She tiptoed past him and out of the hut, making her way to the brush pen where Brian’s horses were tethered.
In a low voice she called to the mare, then whistled through her teeth with the soft hissing sound that soothed the most nervous animal.
“Easy, Briar Rose, stand still. That’s a good girl. I’m not hurting you, I would not do that for any lad’s bright eyes. But he must not go away in the morning, don’t you see? Not so soon!” She knelt in the leaf mould and ran her hands down the slim foreleg of the mare, murmuring an incantation as she did so, willing the heat of her body to flow from her fingers and into the horse’s leg.
In the morning the mare was lame. They all three stood and looked at her, in the way people have of watching something that is not working properly. Camin stroked his beard and surveyed her through slitted eyes, Brian shook his head and stared helplessly, and Fiona just looked, her arms folded across her apron.
The leg was hot to the touch, a puffiness gathered about the thin ankle, and the black mare would not rest her weight on it.
“I can poultice it for you,” Camin offered, “but it will be at least two nights before she’s fit to travel.” He looked closely at his granddaughter, and she returned his gaze fully, with clear eyes and a lift to her pointed little chin. In the silence, worlds of communication passed between them. Camin gave a brief nod and the ghost of a smile touched Fiona’s lips.
The old man prepared a smelly brown past which he applied to the horse’s leg while Brian watched; if he knew quicker ways to heal the mare, he refrained from mentioning them. Then at last Camin stood up and caught the girl’s eye once more, saying in surprisingly vibrant tones, “The day is so fine, Fiona; why not take our guest with you and see if you can get us a nice trout for our dinner?”
Fiona collected her fishing equipment with indecent speed, and the two young people had gone trotting off before Gamin’s words were stale on the air.
They walked for a while , . . Brian did not know how long, nor in what direction. They came at some length to a stream
... it might have been a pond or lake, it did not matter. All that mattered was the way Fiona’s hips swayed as she walked in front of him, and the scent of her hair as it drifted on the warm wind.
All his being seemed to be concentrated in his groin, in the delicious fullness that tantalized and maddened him.
Fiona chose her spot and prepared her net for casting, but the fish she caught was Brian. Even as she reached to make her throw he gave up the unequal fight against himself and grabbed her. The net slapped onto the surface of the water and drifted away unnoticed as she stood trembling in his arms, their unpracticed mouths groping together.
Brian tried to be gentle, but in his ignorance he hurt her and she cried out once, the little squeak of a hare taken in a trap. He felt awkward and foolish, not knowing what to do about clothing, about the arrangements of arms and legs, unable to think clearly enough to behave with the grace he would have wished. His body was beyond his control now, moving with a will and an appetite divorced from his rational mind.
He entered her clumsily, feeling her body shrink from his even as her arms tightened to draw him closer.
He opened his eyes, wanting to see her face in that incredible moment, but the intensity of his own sensations blinded him. He forgot her, forgot even himself as the convulsion tore through him, curving his spine, wringing from him a cry that might have been ecstasy or mortal pain.
It was over almost before it began. The sweetness ebbed away, leaving him shaken and drained. Before he had had a chance to savor it the moment was past, never to return. Never again the first time. He lay still, feeling bereft. Such a splendid thing, how could it flare and fade like that?
At
In a low voice she called to the mare, then whistled through her teeth with the soft hissing sound that soothed the most nervous animal.
“Easy, Briar Rose, stand still. That’s a good girl. I’m not hurting you, I would not do that for any lad’s bright eyes. But he must not go away in the morning, don’t you see? Not so soon!” She knelt in the leaf mould and ran her hands down the slim foreleg of the mare, murmuring an incantation as she did so, willing the heat of her body to flow from her fingers and into the horse’s leg.
In the morning the mare was lame. They all three stood and looked at her, in the way people have of watching something that is not working properly. Camin stroked his beard and surveyed her through slitted eyes, Brian shook his head and stared helplessly, and Fiona just looked, her arms folded across her apron.
The leg was hot to the touch, a puffiness gathered about the thin ankle, and the black mare would not rest her weight on it.
“I can poultice it for you,” Camin offered, “but it will be at least two nights before she’s fit to travel.” He looked closely at his granddaughter, and she returned his gaze fully, with clear eyes and a lift to her pointed little chin. In the silence, worlds of communication passed between them. Camin gave a brief nod and the ghost of a smile touched Fiona’s lips.
The old man prepared a smelly brown past which he applied to the horse’s leg while Brian watched; if he knew quicker ways to heal the mare, he refrained from mentioning them. Then at last Camin stood up and caught the girl’s eye once more, saying in surprisingly vibrant tones, “The day is so fine, Fiona; why not take our guest with you and see if you can get us a nice trout for our dinner?”
Fiona collected her fishing equipment with indecent speed, and the two young people had gone trotting off before Gamin’s words were stale on the air.
They walked for a while , . . Brian did not know how long, nor in what direction. They came at some length to a stream
... it might have been a pond or lake, it did not matter. All that mattered was the way Fiona’s hips swayed as she walked in front of him, and the scent of her hair as it drifted on the warm wind.
All his being seemed to be concentrated in his groin, in the delicious fullness that tantalized and maddened him.
Fiona chose her spot and prepared her net for casting, but the fish she caught was Brian. Even as she reached to make her throw he gave up the unequal fight against himself and grabbed her. The net slapped onto the surface of the water and drifted away unnoticed as she stood trembling in his arms, their unpracticed mouths groping together.
Brian tried to be gentle, but in his ignorance he hurt her and she cried out once, the little squeak of a hare taken in a trap. He felt awkward and foolish, not knowing what to do about clothing, about the arrangements of arms and legs, unable to think clearly enough to behave with the grace he would have wished. His body was beyond his control now, moving with a will and an appetite divorced from his rational mind.
He entered her clumsily, feeling her body shrink from his even as her arms tightened to draw him closer.
He opened his eyes, wanting to see her face in that incredible moment, but the intensity of his own sensations blinded him. He forgot her, forgot even himself as the convulsion tore through him, curving his spine, wringing from him a cry that might have been ecstasy or mortal pain.
It was over almost before it began. The sweetness ebbed away, leaving him shaken and drained. Before he had had a chance to savor it the moment was past, never to return. Never again the first time. He lay still, feeling bereft. Such a splendid thing, how could it flare and fade like that?
At
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