Penny Jordan by [The Crightons 09] Coming Home Page A
Authors: [The Crightons 09] Coming Home
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you sure they're edible?' David asked.
'Trust me, I'm a herbalist,' Honor responded tongue in cheek.
As he walked over to the range to open the door and added more logs to the glowing flames, her mischievous expression changed to one of amazement as she saw.
'Oh, good, you've managed to light the range.
It's been threatening to go out on me for the past week and I've only just managed to keep it going with a lot of elbow grease and prayer.'
'No spells? You disappoint me.' David shook his head.
'It's a dreadfully temperamental old thing,'
Honor continued, ignoring his teasing comment.
'I intend to replace it. Fortunately, I don't have to rely on it to cook with. I've got a small portable stove and a microwave.'
'You mean I've gone through all this for nothing?' David complained.
Honor laughed. 'Well, no, not for nothing. You see,' she told him, wide-eyed, 'the range is the only thing big enough to take my cauldron and I can carry on now that you've lit it!'
'OK, so you're a "Rent-a-Witch",' David said gravely, his eyes warm with laughter as he looked at her. She was wearing jeans and Wellington boots, and where the top of her boots met her jeans, the fabric was dark with the heavy dew from off the fields. The cream cotton sweater she was wearing looked as though it had originally belonged to someone else—a male someone else—her husband? A lover? He frowned as he felt the unmistakable sharpness of a very male and ludicrously inappropriate shaft of jealous possessiveness.
Oversize though her sweater was, it still didn't disguise the full, soft thrust of her breasts as they jiggled enticingly with her movements, hinting at a deliciously promising unfettered naturalness.
Tiggy, despite her periodic desperate craving for sex, had been almost aggressively uptight about her body. She claimed that the underwear she wore would have been considered irresistibly provocative and arousing by any other man, but to David it had given her body all the appeal of a plastic doll, stiff and unyielding, cold and san-itized.
Honor, he suspected, would not smell of expensive perfume or set out to be deliberately alluring by wearing bras designed to give her extra cleavage or stockings worn self-consciously and anxiously in a 'refuse to be turned on by me if you dare' kind of pose.
No, Honor would be lusciously and deliciously female rather than artificially feminine. She would be warm and womanly, abandoning herself to her sexuality with a natural hedonism that couldn't fail to arouse her mate.
Her mate! But he wasn't that...wasn't and never could be. He—
'I don't know about you, but I like to start my day with a proper breakfast,' Honor was saying to him warmly.
A proper breakfast. In Jamaica breakfast, like every other meal, had consisted of fresh fruit from the trees, some fish they had caught and whatever other food they had either bartered for or been given by their patients and their families.
'A proper breakfast,' David repeated her words back to her.
Where had he gone? Where had his thoughts been just then, Honor wondered, musing curiously over the inwardly concentrated look she had seen in his eyes.
'Well, you know what they say,' Honor told him cheerfully. 'One should eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a lord and dinner like a pauper.'
'You're the boss,' David reminded her with a brief shrug of his shoulders. Tiggy had never eaten breakfast—at least not in his presence—and he had hated the chaos of the family kitchen.
Early in the morning he had snatched a cup of coffee and waited until he reached the office to satisfy his hunger on the sandwiches and croissants his secretary would send out for.
He could remember how irritated he had felt when Olivia had looked accusingly at him as he gulped his coffee, shouting from the bottom of the stairs to Tiggy, still in bed, that he was leaving.
In the kitchen, Olivia, dressed in her school uniform and wearing the shirt she would have had to iron herself, would
'Trust me, I'm a herbalist,' Honor responded tongue in cheek.
As he walked over to the range to open the door and added more logs to the glowing flames, her mischievous expression changed to one of amazement as she saw.
'Oh, good, you've managed to light the range.
It's been threatening to go out on me for the past week and I've only just managed to keep it going with a lot of elbow grease and prayer.'
'No spells? You disappoint me.' David shook his head.
'It's a dreadfully temperamental old thing,'
Honor continued, ignoring his teasing comment.
'I intend to replace it. Fortunately, I don't have to rely on it to cook with. I've got a small portable stove and a microwave.'
'You mean I've gone through all this for nothing?' David complained.
Honor laughed. 'Well, no, not for nothing. You see,' she told him, wide-eyed, 'the range is the only thing big enough to take my cauldron and I can carry on now that you've lit it!'
'OK, so you're a "Rent-a-Witch",' David said gravely, his eyes warm with laughter as he looked at her. She was wearing jeans and Wellington boots, and where the top of her boots met her jeans, the fabric was dark with the heavy dew from off the fields. The cream cotton sweater she was wearing looked as though it had originally belonged to someone else—a male someone else—her husband? A lover? He frowned as he felt the unmistakable sharpness of a very male and ludicrously inappropriate shaft of jealous possessiveness.
Oversize though her sweater was, it still didn't disguise the full, soft thrust of her breasts as they jiggled enticingly with her movements, hinting at a deliciously promising unfettered naturalness.
Tiggy, despite her periodic desperate craving for sex, had been almost aggressively uptight about her body. She claimed that the underwear she wore would have been considered irresistibly provocative and arousing by any other man, but to David it had given her body all the appeal of a plastic doll, stiff and unyielding, cold and san-itized.
Honor, he suspected, would not smell of expensive perfume or set out to be deliberately alluring by wearing bras designed to give her extra cleavage or stockings worn self-consciously and anxiously in a 'refuse to be turned on by me if you dare' kind of pose.
No, Honor would be lusciously and deliciously female rather than artificially feminine. She would be warm and womanly, abandoning herself to her sexuality with a natural hedonism that couldn't fail to arouse her mate.
Her mate! But he wasn't that...wasn't and never could be. He—
'I don't know about you, but I like to start my day with a proper breakfast,' Honor was saying to him warmly.
A proper breakfast. In Jamaica breakfast, like every other meal, had consisted of fresh fruit from the trees, some fish they had caught and whatever other food they had either bartered for or been given by their patients and their families.
'A proper breakfast,' David repeated her words back to her.
Where had he gone? Where had his thoughts been just then, Honor wondered, musing curiously over the inwardly concentrated look she had seen in his eyes.
'Well, you know what they say,' Honor told him cheerfully. 'One should eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a lord and dinner like a pauper.'
'You're the boss,' David reminded her with a brief shrug of his shoulders. Tiggy had never eaten breakfast—at least not in his presence—and he had hated the chaos of the family kitchen.
Early in the morning he had snatched a cup of coffee and waited until he reached the office to satisfy his hunger on the sandwiches and croissants his secretary would send out for.
He could remember how irritated he had felt when Olivia had looked accusingly at him as he gulped his coffee, shouting from the bottom of the stairs to Tiggy, still in bed, that he was leaving.
In the kitchen, Olivia, dressed in her school uniform and wearing the shirt she would have had to iron herself, would
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