words of
reassurance he'd contemplated offering would have quite the opposite
effect, and alarm her needlessly.
He
may have kissed her, but that was so brief you could hardly call it a
kiss, and certainly he wouldn't attempt to ravish the girl while she
slept. He would not touch her,
he told himself. In fact, he'd stay awake until she fell asleep, then
move his blankets some distance away so he couldn't touch her, even
unconsciously. Gad, at this rate, not a shred of indecency would be
left to him, he drought ruefully.
ESME
WOKE TO darkness and the not entirely unfamiliar sensation of weight
upon her. A long arm curled round her waist, and a long, lean body
pressed along the length of her back. She had wrapped her blanket
about her like a cocoon, and no part of his flesh touched hers, yet
she was as acutely aware of every masculine bone and sinew as if she
were naked. The images she conjured up made her face hot, and she
stirred uneasily.
He
mumbled something into her neck, and the arm pressed her closer. Then
abruptly, it jerked away, and the heavy warmth of him vanished, too.
He thrashed at the blankets. “Bloody hell,” his voice
came, a growling whisper.
She
turned and found he was sitting up.
“ I woke you,” he said.
“I
was awake,” she said to his shadowy form. “It is nearly
dawn.”
“Have
I been crushing you the whole curst night?” He sounded angry.
“You
are large, but you are not an elephant. I am not crushed.”
Only
embarrassed, she added inwardly. To be held so was more than warming;
it made something inside her rush and pound, like a flock of swallows
beating their wings. She'd felt that when his lips had touched hers:
a terrible sweetness, come and gone in an instant, and afterward the
flurried throbbing within. She should have felt nothing, and so was
dismayed with herself.
“I'm
sorry,” he said. “I didn't — I
didn't insult you, did I?”
“No.”
There
was a long pause. Then he said in more normal tones, “And I
trust you didn't insult my person, did you, miss?”
“No!
What do you —” Her face burned. “Oh, it is
a joke.”
“Or
wishful thinking,” he muttered. He caught his breath, then went
on. “That is to say, I distinctly felt something bite me, and I
rather hoped it was you because —”
“You
wished me to bite you?”
“Because
otherwise it was some other creature that bit me. There being a great
many of them and only one of you, the latter odds were less
disheartening, you see.”
“Then
perhaps you should not sleep so close, efendi. I think the fleas find you more
appetizing, and so mine may travel to you,” she added guiltily.
“I
don't mean to sleep so close. It just seems to happen. I suppose you
find me very troublesome.”
The
air in the tent carried a faint, fresh promise of morning, and the
heavy darkness was receding, leaving a somber veil of gray light in
its wake. He sat with his knees drawn up and his arms loosely crossed
upon them. Even in the gloomy shadows, he seemed a work of sculptor's
art, too beautiful to be mortal flesh and blood. He was indeed
troublesome, she thought. Her mind should remain fixed on her duty,
on a father's murder to be avenged, but this man called her mind away
to fasten on him instead.
“Yes,”
she said.
“You
won't believe this, Esme, but normally I'm most agreeable company.
It's one of my few talents. I can make myself agreeable to just about
anybody.”
He
hesitated, then went on in light tones, “Otherwise, I'd surely
have starved to death by now. You see, all I've got to my name is my name. That and a skill for
pleasing is what feeds, clothes, and houses me.”
She
turned a disbelieving gaze upon him.
“It's
quite true,” he assured her. “Like my untitled brothers,
the fleas, I'm a parasite. But a charming one. I never bite, for
instance.”
“I
believe you can be agreeable,” she said. “At least to the
women, or you would not have had so many.”
“I
should like to know exactly
reassurance he'd contemplated offering would have quite the opposite
effect, and alarm her needlessly.
He
may have kissed her, but that was so brief you could hardly call it a
kiss, and certainly he wouldn't attempt to ravish the girl while she
slept. He would not touch her,
he told himself. In fact, he'd stay awake until she fell asleep, then
move his blankets some distance away so he couldn't touch her, even
unconsciously. Gad, at this rate, not a shred of indecency would be
left to him, he drought ruefully.
ESME
WOKE TO darkness and the not entirely unfamiliar sensation of weight
upon her. A long arm curled round her waist, and a long, lean body
pressed along the length of her back. She had wrapped her blanket
about her like a cocoon, and no part of his flesh touched hers, yet
she was as acutely aware of every masculine bone and sinew as if she
were naked. The images she conjured up made her face hot, and she
stirred uneasily.
He
mumbled something into her neck, and the arm pressed her closer. Then
abruptly, it jerked away, and the heavy warmth of him vanished, too.
He thrashed at the blankets. “Bloody hell,” his voice
came, a growling whisper.
She
turned and found he was sitting up.
“ I woke you,” he said.
“I
was awake,” she said to his shadowy form. “It is nearly
dawn.”
“Have
I been crushing you the whole curst night?” He sounded angry.
“You
are large, but you are not an elephant. I am not crushed.”
Only
embarrassed, she added inwardly. To be held so was more than warming;
it made something inside her rush and pound, like a flock of swallows
beating their wings. She'd felt that when his lips had touched hers:
a terrible sweetness, come and gone in an instant, and afterward the
flurried throbbing within. She should have felt nothing, and so was
dismayed with herself.
“I'm
sorry,” he said. “I didn't — I
didn't insult you, did I?”
“No.”
There
was a long pause. Then he said in more normal tones, “And I
trust you didn't insult my person, did you, miss?”
“No!
What do you —” Her face burned. “Oh, it is
a joke.”
“Or
wishful thinking,” he muttered. He caught his breath, then went
on. “That is to say, I distinctly felt something bite me, and I
rather hoped it was you because —”
“You
wished me to bite you?”
“Because
otherwise it was some other creature that bit me. There being a great
many of them and only one of you, the latter odds were less
disheartening, you see.”
“Then
perhaps you should not sleep so close, efendi. I think the fleas find you more
appetizing, and so mine may travel to you,” she added guiltily.
“I
don't mean to sleep so close. It just seems to happen. I suppose you
find me very troublesome.”
The
air in the tent carried a faint, fresh promise of morning, and the
heavy darkness was receding, leaving a somber veil of gray light in
its wake. He sat with his knees drawn up and his arms loosely crossed
upon them. Even in the gloomy shadows, he seemed a work of sculptor's
art, too beautiful to be mortal flesh and blood. He was indeed
troublesome, she thought. Her mind should remain fixed on her duty,
on a father's murder to be avenged, but this man called her mind away
to fasten on him instead.
“Yes,”
she said.
“You
won't believe this, Esme, but normally I'm most agreeable company.
It's one of my few talents. I can make myself agreeable to just about
anybody.”
He
hesitated, then went on in light tones, “Otherwise, I'd surely
have starved to death by now. You see, all I've got to my name is my name. That and a skill for
pleasing is what feeds, clothes, and houses me.”
She
turned a disbelieving gaze upon him.
“It's
quite true,” he assured her. “Like my untitled brothers,
the fleas, I'm a parasite. But a charming one. I never bite, for
instance.”
“I
believe you can be agreeable,” she said. “At least to the
women, or you would not have had so many.”
“I
should like to know exactly
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