She found the angle that pleased her the most and rode him ruthlessly while his fingers sank into her hips and he gasped her name. She wasn’t sure if his eyes rolled back or not, because he had them tightly closed, head thrown back.
“Marguerite,” he said hoarsely, “I can’t…I’m going to…”
She smacked a hand down in the center of his chest and growled, “Don’t you dare, paladin.” His eyes snapped open in surprise and he stared up at her. “Not until I’m— ahh! —
done with you.… ahhh…”
A great threat, and she didn’t even last to the end of the sentence. She was too keyed up and her body was too desperate for release. And hell, she’d wanted the gorgeous holy bastard for far too long. Everything clenched suddenly, impossibly tight, and she fell forward against him, shuddering.
He must have felt it— not surprising, people back in Archenhold probably felt that—and taken it as permission because he bucked his hips hard against her, lifting her up and driving her back down, and then, with hilariously desperate courtesy, he said, “Excuse me—” and lifted her up, turning to spend himself away from her body. Polite of him. Probably not necessary, but polite anyway.
Then he curled up around her, no longer cold but deliciously warm. He had the presence of mind to grab his cloak and pull it over them both. It was still damp and steaming gently from the fire, but it held the heat in, and Marguerite fell asleep with her fingers still stroking the roughness along his jaw.
Shane wrapped himself around her, trying to keep the cold out with his own body, and knew that
he had made a terrible, glorious mistake.
ABOUT FIVE MINUTES as the crow flies, and about two hours as the crow walked, in a similar shelter partway down the mountain, two people sat as far apart as it was physically possible to sit. The fire box had not been so well stocked and the fire had lasted less than twenty minutes before guttering down to embers.
Finally, one of them cleared his throat and said, “It would probably be warmer if we—”
“I’d rather freeze to death.”
“Fair enough.”
SHANE WOKE with his arms full of Marguerite, which was a marvelous way to wake up. He savored the moment as long as possible, until his lower back informed him that he was on a stone floor and if he didn’t move right this minute, there would be dire repercussions.
He tried to shift unobtrusively, but Marguerite woke immediately. She blinked up at him, down at her state of undress, then said, “Huh!” in a tone that managed to be both surprised and smug.
“Sorry,” said Shane reflexively.
She shook her head. “I’m not. Although I can think of better surfaces to do that on.” She disentangled herself, while Shane tried to rub his lower back in as manly and attractive a fashion as possible.
It was past daybreak and the fire was cold. The sky was clear overhead, and Shane dared to hope that they wouldn’t get rained on again. A bird called somewhere on the hillside, answered by another one, which seemed to offend it. They called back and forth, increasingly outraged, for several moments, while Shane dug through their supplies and produced a slightly squashed loaf of bread and a small, battered apple.
Marguerite felt the hem of her shirt, sniffed it and grimaced. “Well,” she said, “it’s dry, at least.
Even if it smells like burnt sheep dung.”
“Mine will, too,” Shane offered. “So at least we won’t offend each other.”
She nodded and stretched to pull the shirt off the clothesline. It did fascinating things to her body.
Shane’s eyes traced her body downward, and paused at an unexpected row of lines across her hip.
“Are those stretchmarks?”
He immediately wanted to sink into the floor of the shelter at his own tactlessness. “Not that they’re—I’m not saying they’re bad—I just noticed—”
Oh, well done. Perhaps you can map out all of her skin blemishes next.
Marguerite laughed and put a hand over one breast to hold it out of the way so she could look down at her hip. “Here?” She traced one of the silver-red marks. “They are, yes.”
“Ah.” He had a strong urge to drop to his knees and press his lips against one, but that seemed extremely presumptuous, given the circumstances.
One corner of her mouth crooked up. “In answer to the question you are carefully not asking, no, I’ve never been pregnant. It just happens sometimes. Surprised you noticed. Most men never look any lower than the breasts.”
The word pregnant rang in Shane’s brain, but was drowned out by the phrase most men. He had a sudden desire to go and talk to these other men. Perhaps bounce their heads gently off the pavement a few times.
Stop that, you ass. She took you into her bed once, that’s all. You have no right to even expect it again, let alone feel jealousy.
“Ah,” he said again. The word pregnant was still trying to get his attention, and finally did, accompanied by sudden panic. “Err…last night, we… I didn’t…um… I tried not to…but that doesn’t always…”
She laughed and dropped her shirt down over the marks. “I did. Silphium powder. I never take any risks with that.”
No, of course she wouldn’t. Nor would she trust anyone else to take them for her. The thought woke both admiration and an odd, diffuse kind of sadness in him. Who does she have to depend on?
Is there anyone?
Perhaps she mistook his silence for concern, because she smiled at him. “It’s very reliable. I am very much not cut out to be a mother.”
“I would think that you could be almost anything you wanted.”
Her laugh had a little roughness around the edges, but seemed genuine enough, if rueful. “Oh, I’ve tried. For a while there, I thought maybe I could just sell perfumes for a living. But something always drags me back.” She paused, staring at nothing in particular. “Anyway, this would be no life for a child. Besides, I have an absolute horror of pregnancy.”
Even Shane could recognize when it was time for the voice. “It can be very dangerous,” he said gently.
“The original Marguerite died of it. Both her and the child. I decided early on that I didn’t wish to tempt that fate.”
There was a note of finality that Shane had no desire to push. “I…err…I don’t have any children either. As far as I know.” He cleared his throat. “That is, no one ever came to the temple to say that I might have fathered their child.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Sometimes. After a battle, if you’ve helped people, some of them are grateful. Um. Very grateful.” He realized, unaccountably, that he was blushing, which was completely ridiculous, given what they’d done the night before.
Marguerite’s eyes danced and he knew she was about to say something hilariously cutting, when a
familiar voice drifted up from the path to the shelter.
“If you’re going to close your eyes, at least take hold of my hand so you don’t walk off the damned cliff.”
“I have no desire to hold anything of yours,” another, equally familiar voice snapped back.