The Sleeping Beauty's Tale by Grace D`Otare Page A

swept. A posy of autumn leaves and berries were stuffed in a cup. Nan, the only surgeon within a week’s ride, sat in his wife’s rocking chair, hands busy with a needle and thread.
    â€œNo one heals in a muddle,” she explained, then nodded at the bedside table. “Look on the tray there. Took me nearly an hour to remove it all.”
    The monster was large enough Hale could pinch it between two fingers—a thorn, two inches long and black as pitch.
    â€œWicked thing, to be sure,” the woman said.
    â€œShe looks…better.”
    His wife lay on the bed, lightly tucked beneath the quilt. Eyes closed. No sign of pain in her expression.
    Polly.
    She might have been merely sleeping.
    Her dark hair was loosely braided, a hair ribbon tied around the end. Her shift was clean, the fine linen one she rarely wore. Too much fuss, his practical wife would say. I can’t pop ’round to the barn for French laundry soap, you know.
    In the candlelight, her skin was milky white, her cheeks faintly pink. Her chapped lips had been treated with ointment. Hale saw the pot on the nightstand. A blend of beeswax and sweet butter, he guessed. It smelled like lemon balm. Her mouth glistened, plump and soft, as if she’d been kissed. As if she’d been kissing him.
    Hale settled on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her. One of her hands lay tucked beneath the bedcovers. He lifted the other to his mouth. Her palm was cool and he pressed it to his cheek, instinctively. Warming Polly was one of his regular duties.
    What would he do without her?
    Beneath the quilted counterpane, Polly’s other hand began to move restlessly, rounding over her hip, then sliding up across the flat plane of her stomach, her ribs, until it came to rest over her heart. Her lips parted and she inhaled a tiny sigh.
    â€œPolly? Are you hurting?”
    Her fingers began to move beneath the blanket. At first, Hale thought she sought to ease an itch, but her steady motion was too deliberate. His mouth went dry, as he watched her thumb the soft weight of her breast. She turned her head toward the pillow, toward the breast being teased by her own hand. The temperature of his skin rose as his body readied to assist.
    â€œThe fever makes her restless,” Nan commented.
    â€œI see that.”
    Under the bedclothes, Polly’s hand began to travel again. Her chin tilted, exposing the smooth skin of her neck above the flounce of her nightgown. He wanted to press his lips there. He wanted to feel the curling of her spine under his hands when he warmed her throat with his mouth.
    When she’d reached as far down the center of her body as she could, Hale felt the fluttering shift of her fingers beneath the blanket.
    Understanding put every ounce of his blood in motion.
    His wife was aroused. With old Mrs. Nan sitting across the room.
    Her breath ruffled in the wake of her body’s rhythm. “Hale.”
    Was it better, or worse, knowing his wife dreamt of him? Wanted him. Here. Now. When there was nothing he could do but pretend otherwise.
    He adjusted his seat. Sliding closer to her body, he shielded his wife’s busy hand from view, while making room for the spreading length and girth of his own sudden congestion. Thank the Lord the light was dim, and the old woman’s eyes weren’t what they used to be. A man had his limits.
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    â€œShe’s touching herself?” Maeve clarified curiously. “With the old nurse in the room?”
    â€œDelirious with fever. Can’t help herself.”
    â€œAhh. He must be quite an amazing lover.”
    â€œAnd if you’d let me finish the story—”
    â€œI beg your pardon,” she said, rocking her own hips rather sweetly. “Please?”
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    â€œPlease,” his Polly called softly.
    Hale felt himself fully harden so fast his back teeth ached. He cupped her palm to his lips, inhaled the scent of her skin. That kiss led to a