in.
Owen’s.
In two long strides he was upon her, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against the cool morning chill settling on her skin. His brow furrowed with concern.
“Yesterday I had purpose. And today, well…” She flattened the front of her kirtle. “Today I am just an orphaned girl in a frock.”
Owen’s eyes gravitated south to her bosom. “It suits you.”
Cate growled her disgust. “I feel as though I am in a constant state of undress.” She fidgeted under his warming gaze. “Does that please you?” She arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Seeing you in any state of undress would please me.” His hand curled around her waist, settling at the small of her back. Owen pulled her forward slightly, away from the wall. “Don’t think for a moment I do not recall what transpired between us, Cate.” His voice, low in her ear, was just above a whisper. “I might have been drunk, but I could think of nothing else but the slickness of your womanhood upon my cock. I dreamt of your lips upon mine while I slept.”
“You might place them there again, to see if you still dream?”
Owen leaned casually against the wall, resting his weight on his elbow. Lifting Cate’s chin with a finger, he bent to kiss her. Voices emerged from the door nestled off to the side of the house. Owen shot upright, his arms dropping to his hips. Casually, he tugged his sleeves down over his forearms as if he had just finished washing, his attempt at seduction now a fleeting leaf on the wind.
The women exited the house, briefly glancing at the pair before hoisting their skirts and roaming in all directions from Wallace’s homestead. Cate speculated they would set off to prepare for the evening’s meal. She watched them scurry for a moment, likening them to flocking sheep without a shepherd. They seemed lost, without direction. “Perhaps I should go help. Most of the men left in the village are frail, and in no condition to be spitting a pig.”
Owen nodded curtly. “I must see to Jack, to make sure he hasn’t been eaten in all the commotion, and inventory the contents of my bags.”
A playful jest, yet Cate couldn’t help but hear a bit of truth behind the words. People were hungry, it was evident, and a wounded animal cost more to care for than a healthy one. His bags contained her armor, a fact she hadn’t forgotten. Was he purposefully keeping it from her? The question was thought provoking. She would see her armor returned, whether he liked it or not.
Cate parted ways with Owen, wandering toward the center of the village where shops lined the quaint thoroughfare of Hawkhurst. The feast would take place at the large triangular green known to the villagers as the Moor. Just behind the main road, the Moor was surrounded by cottages, the parish church of St. Laurence, and a small bathhouse that hadn’t seen a drop of water in years. Given the amount of water needed to fill the large tub, and the fact that the roof burned at the hands of a few teenage ruffians, the building had been left to the perils of nature.
Hawkhurst had been forever changed when the King’s army stormed through. Cate had noticed the change when she smiled at passersby. The young women kept to themselves, with heads pointed toward the dirt, rushing to and fro. So many lives lost. Cate wondered if she could have made a difference had she been there at the time of the attacks. Perhaps, but more than likely she would be in the ground among the dead, as well. Dead and gone seemed preferable at times, as the constant ache in her heart was most unbearable.
Cate shuffled to a stop. She found herself standing in front of Archer’s Corner, her father’s bow shop. Her home. The two had shared a small room above the shop, until Cate started spending most of her time in the wood hunting and practicing her bow skills. She would sell the meat at market, the extra coin supplementing her father’s dwindling income. He was a master craftsman —
Owen’s.
In two long strides he was upon her, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against the cool morning chill settling on her skin. His brow furrowed with concern.
“Yesterday I had purpose. And today, well…” She flattened the front of her kirtle. “Today I am just an orphaned girl in a frock.”
Owen’s eyes gravitated south to her bosom. “It suits you.”
Cate growled her disgust. “I feel as though I am in a constant state of undress.” She fidgeted under his warming gaze. “Does that please you?” She arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Seeing you in any state of undress would please me.” His hand curled around her waist, settling at the small of her back. Owen pulled her forward slightly, away from the wall. “Don’t think for a moment I do not recall what transpired between us, Cate.” His voice, low in her ear, was just above a whisper. “I might have been drunk, but I could think of nothing else but the slickness of your womanhood upon my cock. I dreamt of your lips upon mine while I slept.”
“You might place them there again, to see if you still dream?”
Owen leaned casually against the wall, resting his weight on his elbow. Lifting Cate’s chin with a finger, he bent to kiss her. Voices emerged from the door nestled off to the side of the house. Owen shot upright, his arms dropping to his hips. Casually, he tugged his sleeves down over his forearms as if he had just finished washing, his attempt at seduction now a fleeting leaf on the wind.
The women exited the house, briefly glancing at the pair before hoisting their skirts and roaming in all directions from Wallace’s homestead. Cate speculated they would set off to prepare for the evening’s meal. She watched them scurry for a moment, likening them to flocking sheep without a shepherd. They seemed lost, without direction. “Perhaps I should go help. Most of the men left in the village are frail, and in no condition to be spitting a pig.”
Owen nodded curtly. “I must see to Jack, to make sure he hasn’t been eaten in all the commotion, and inventory the contents of my bags.”
A playful jest, yet Cate couldn’t help but hear a bit of truth behind the words. People were hungry, it was evident, and a wounded animal cost more to care for than a healthy one. His bags contained her armor, a fact she hadn’t forgotten. Was he purposefully keeping it from her? The question was thought provoking. She would see her armor returned, whether he liked it or not.
Cate parted ways with Owen, wandering toward the center of the village where shops lined the quaint thoroughfare of Hawkhurst. The feast would take place at the large triangular green known to the villagers as the Moor. Just behind the main road, the Moor was surrounded by cottages, the parish church of St. Laurence, and a small bathhouse that hadn’t seen a drop of water in years. Given the amount of water needed to fill the large tub, and the fact that the roof burned at the hands of a few teenage ruffians, the building had been left to the perils of nature.
Hawkhurst had been forever changed when the King’s army stormed through. Cate had noticed the change when she smiled at passersby. The young women kept to themselves, with heads pointed toward the dirt, rushing to and fro. So many lives lost. Cate wondered if she could have made a difference had she been there at the time of the attacks. Perhaps, but more than likely she would be in the ground among the dead, as well. Dead and gone seemed preferable at times, as the constant ache in her heart was most unbearable.
Cate shuffled to a stop. She found herself standing in front of Archer’s Corner, her father’s bow shop. Her home. The two had shared a small room above the shop, until Cate started spending most of her time in the wood hunting and practicing her bow skills. She would sell the meat at market, the extra coin supplementing her father’s dwindling income. He was a master craftsman —
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