Lydia
returned to
lying on her side, while he shifted around. Then again, without explanation, he
moved away, once more gone. After a second, she twisted at the waist, laying
her shoulders back onto the ground, looking for him.
She didn't have to look far. There he was above her, up on one
elbow, rearranging himself. In the process, his shin came against her buttocks.
He halted, looked down at her, their faces six inches away.
They lay motionless like that for a full minute, the top of his
leg, his knee and thigh, against her.
There was just enough firelight to know his gaze dropped to her
mouth. His face was at just enough angle to put most of his injuries in
shadows. God above, minus the misfortunes of his morning, his face would be
handsome. His jaw was squared, strong-boned there in the shadows, his firelit
cheek ridged and channeled, angular. His brow jutted. From beneath it, his eyes
watched her lips – she licked them once, unable to stop herself, because they
felt dry, so dry, all at once.
There was a long, pregnant pause where neither of them moved, as
if they dare not.
Then he let out a gust of air down his nose, turned, and rolled to
lay his head onto his bent arm. He put his back against hers.
Pistons and packing rings, she thought. That's what all this was
about.
Until today, she had never been alone with a man other than her
father or brother for more than a few minutes (well, Boddington once, but that
didn't count), and though all day she had ridden or traipsed along with Sam
Cody, not until the night had their isolated, uninterrupted company seemed in
any way worth noting. Now, though, it had become impossible to ignore.
Pistons and packing rings. Though whatever went on between a man
and a woman wasn't just that. It was more personal; stronger, more engaging,
encompassing: better. And it began somehow with this feeling low in her belly
and along her skin. As if a wisp of smoke reached out, wrapped itself around
her, and drew her to him. A thin wisp. Hardly there. But tenacious. She could
resist it. She could choose to ignore it. But she couldn't make it let go of
her.
Like the gin. She felt besotted, unbalanced for lying near him.
She kept thinking about him, the physical him. The way he stretched out to
sleep, the way he built fires, the way he stooped or squatted on one toe with
his arm over his knee. God help her, she even liked the way he threw rocks. How
foolish was that? She liked his smile, or the half of it that she'd gotten all
day. She liked the rasp in his voice and the deep, slow-drawling rhythm of his
speech…
"Sam," she murmured.
"Mm?"
"I'm cold."
"Go to sleep."
"Hold me."
He said nothing for long enough that she thought he was going to
ignore her again. Then he let out a snort. After which – oh, the joy as she
realized – she felt him turning, rolling over. His hand and arm came over her,
hooking round her belly and hips. With the flat of his palm on her stomach –
Lord, how wonderful was
that
to feel! – he pulled her back against him.
Oh, yes, oh, yes. Behind her, he curved his body to her as if it were the most
natural thing in the world. Heat. Contact. Goodness, why hadn't he done this
before? His arm was strong – he tucked her easily into him, himself around her.
Everywhere he felt hard, carved, so perfectly antithetical to her own softness.
She let her hands come to rest on his forearm, aware of a vigor in him that was
bone deep, an energy she hadn't understood exactly and couldn't explain, yet
she felt in his chest and arms and hips and legs: a breathing, thriving
virility. While his body temperature next to hers felt marvelously hot, warmer
than she could have—
Lydia
was brought up
short. She'd done that thing again, that push with her backside that she seemed
to do without quite thinking it, as if her body pushed on its own. And the
movement had yielded a discovery and a possible reason for his reluctance to
hold her against him.
He'd been preserving his privacy and, in a way, hers.
For at her backside, through her dress, was an unmistakable –
particularly vigorous – part of Mr. Cody's anatomy. A part that was
rod-straight with a heft to it she hadn't suspected; weighty, substantial. More
amazing still, she could feel him becoming thicker, heavier – while she had to
fight an urge to squirm against him. She held herself rigidly still. While a
long, steely presence settled into the cleave of her bum, the tip of him
pushing solidly into the small of her back.
Well, sir, she thought. That's quite the piston you have there.
7
S
am awoke to a misty morning, a haze in the air that in the
distance was so dense it blocked off visibility. There was no horizon, only the
immediate vaporous vicinity: their dead fire, the filmy outline of their rock
wall, the faint, milky silhouettes of a few bushes at the boundaries of
perceivability. It was as if the dark of night had only lifted so far, then
turned white. Overhead, cloud cover hung, thick and low, the sun perceptible
only as a bleary bright spot where cotton-wool sky dissolved into mist.
It was like rising to the day in a little world of their own: His
only perfectly clear view was of the woman lying next to him, the one who
unwittingly had kept him up, so to speak, for most of the night. He couldn't
remember a worse night's sleep. Beside him, Liddy lay tousled and unconscious,
one arm thrown over her head, the other across her stomach. A damn fine sight,
her chest rising and falling softly, her composure undefended. Her dress lay
rumpled but dry around her. Remnants of mud dirtied her skirt, though the worst
had dusted off – she'd loosened the laces of one muddy shoe, he noticed, her
ankle noticeably swollen. Her face must've had a film of dirt on it, because in
full daylight he could see two smudged tracks down her cheeks, evidence of her
crying after their bout with the bog. He wanted to wipe the streaks away, then
caught his hand back.
He wanted to do a lot of cussed fool things with this woman.
Better he got himself going.
In the veiled light, he gathered and ate more purple berries as he
checked the traps: He collected a rabbit, set a baby fox free, then sprang the
rest of the snares and buried over the pit traps, one with a dead mouse in it,
so that nothing further would stumble into harm when they weren't going to be
around to enjoy the use of the kill.
When he got back to their camp, Liddy was sitting up, yawning and
stretching. He handed her a hatful of berries, and they began: They argued over
whether to eat the rabbit or get going. They argued over whether to head east
across the moor or south and hope for the road. They argued over whether the
mist would burn off or become heavier.
They ended up eating berries and making ready to head out as
quickly as they could, since dim visibility was better than none – Sam
convinced Liddy there was at least a possibility of rain, fog, or both. She
held out longest in arguing for a breakfast of cooked rabbit. She really wanted
more of what she'd had last night, which secretly made him happy, though he wouldn't
say, since it would've weakened his side of the argument.
Argument
. It was their byword. They seemed to take
turns making each other mad. Still, it was one way to get to know someone, he
guessed, through jostling and missteps.
As they gathered their things, he watched her hobbling and mulled
over the best way to help. He would have made her a walking stick. Or just
picked her up and carried her – she couldn't weigh much. Though he knew he'd
have to negotiate what help he might be, especially the last, since she didn't
like to be handled without permission, not even by accident, not even if it
meant saving her from falling flat on her face. She'd rather fall. It was
possible she'd even rather drown.
As he picked up the gin bottle – they'd finished off the short one
– and driver's spare clothes, an idea too good not to mention came out his
mouth. "You know, if we wrapped your ankle with these" – he picked up
the socks and driver's shirt – "you could probably walk easier.
She surprised him. She blinked up at him, staring, then nodded.
"Great. Sit down here." Sam pointed and got right to it.
With his knife, he cut the sides of the socks, leaving the toe
connected to make two long, knit strips. He ripped the shirt into lengths.
"Let's have your leg," he said. When he saw the black of
stockings, though – sheer, expensive silk over a pale, slender leg – he said,
"You'll, um, ah, have to take off your, um" – he paused –
"this."
For the life of him, he couldn't say the word stocking.
Pronouncing it took on such a prurient charge he was worried that forming it in
his mouth would shoot stimulation from his tongue down through his body till
his penis was standing there nodding at her again from his trousers.
Oblivious, she reached under her skirts to get the stocking
started, rolling it along with a little black garter out into sight, a wad down
her ankle then off her toe. She wiggled her toes, while Sam found himself
staring at her bare foot, the high instep, the delicate ankle bone, the
beginning of a firm-muscled calf. Her shin had a light covering of hair, little
golden bits, sparse, as fine as down. He wanted to brush his hand along it,
smooth it, pet her like a cat.
He held out his hands instead. "May I?" He threw her
half an uncertain smile. "Since you like to be consulted on
everything." He waited, partly tormenting her, partly uneasy about
touching her for his own reasons.
With complete seriousness, she nodded. "Yes. Thank you."
When she caught his eye, though, her expression grew uncertain. She knew he was
making fun, but wasn't sure where or how: a woman who took her dignity very
seriously.
He hooked his palm under her heel, tucking a strip of sock firmly
against her ankle bone, then began to wrap her ankle, glancing up, wrapping,
glancing up, wrapping. With each glimpse, he saw a thin woman with wild hair
and mist hanging around her shoulders. Big eyes. Nothing special, though, he
told himself.
Yet each time, he felt more uneasy: stranded in an eerie world –
cloudlike today – alone with a woman he couldn't explain, his own impulses
suggesting he might be losing touch with good sense.
He tried to analyze what he found so damn attractive here. Her
voluptuous backside, yes. Her pretty breasts, yes. Her skinny body, no – though
her leg here wasn't half bad, even though it was thin. Her face. Yes, something
in her delicate face. The way she watched him. Her honey-brown eyes; warm,
shining, sweet. They were giant, deep-lidded, with long, thick lashes – lashes
so long, he realized, she must look at everything out from under their shadows.
These eyes were set low in a petite face under high eyebrows that
made her seem always on the verge of a question. She had smooth skin, a short
nose, a small round chin, and, God love her – she smiled and said, "Thank
you for doing this" – deep dimples on either side of her wide mouth.
Jesus, he colored. He felt himself warm. He could barely get the
words out. "You're welcome," he mumbled.
Then worse. Out the corner of his eye, he knew she stared at him.
She lifted her brow and let her warm eyes widen on him in speculation.
When he looked up to face her fully, though, she looked away. A
kind of cat-and-mouse of eye contact. Surprisingly, as she bent her head, he
saw a slight smile spread onto her lips.
"Liddy—"
She gazed at him again, tilting her head, this time her eyes
gliding over him before she looked away.
The hair of his arms lifted, sending ripples through him to his
scrotum, tightening it until, with a rush of blood, he felt the beginning of an
erection again. Jesus. All just from the way she tilted her head and looked at
him, her manner as natural – and flirtatious – as a bird's flutter at mating.
He stared. Liddy had the instant sort of sweet, feminine
attractiveness that made a man want to scoop her up, protect her with his life,
hold her, soothe her. Penetrate her soft vulnerability.
Not a great impulse, since it didn't take a second to remember the
little lady here was as vulnerable as a bee's pin. Physically delicate,
tenderhearted, with a will of iron.
"There," he said.
She blinked, her long lashes brushing the tops of her cheekbones,
and he felt a surge of such fierce, hot longing that he was dizzy with it for a
moment. He wanted to plant a hand on either side at her hips, lean his weight
out onto his arms, use it to press her back and down, and lie on top of her.
Lord Almighty, he wanted to lay his body on her, writhe, feel her under him,
push her legs apart until he was grinding himself against her—
He sat back onto heels.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He shook his head. He prayed they found the road and a ride today,
because if he had to lie down again beside her tonight, he would have to knock
himself out to keep from spooning her into lovemaking. He wouldn't be able to
stop himself.
Of course, she'd be able to stop him. She'd probably brain him, so
maybe there was no worry. It wasn't as if Liddy Brown here couldn't take care
of herself. Even though she, and apparently her whole family, liked to pretend
she couldn't.
Sam stood. "Ready, then?"
*
Using
the bright spot in the white sky as an easterly guide,
Lydia
and Mr. Cody
headed south with the hope of intersecting the road. It shouldn't have been
far, and by any measure the road was closer, quicker, than heading east – even
though east in good weather should have been a more direct route off the moor.
If the weather grew worse, though, knowing which direction to travel could
become impossible. The roadway, meanwhile, if they could find it – even if they
met no one, no traffic – might at least give them a sure path to follow.
Thus, they moved southward through the mist that hung about them,
with her carrying what remained of the gin in one arm and Mr. Cody's hat full
of whortleberries in the other, while Mr. Cody carried her satchel by its strap
over his shoulder. Periodically, in swings of his far arm, she could glimpse a
rabbit held by its ears, their next meal.
Something else she stole looks at: Sam Cody himself was different
this morning without his hat. His beard had sprouted overnight, like black sand
along his jaw, cheek, and lip. The swelling of his eye was down, though it had
turned a colorful blue and purple at the socket. That and the rest – the bridge
of his nose discolored and perhaps swollen, cuts at his cheekbone and mouth –
made him look … reckless, which he probably was, come to think of it, to have
gotten in such shape.
She loved his hat off, though. He was so much more open for
perusal. His hair, which she'd known was dark, was truly very close to black.
It curled at his neck. Thick, glossy commas of it lay over his white shirt
collar in back – too long to be fashionable in
London
, but
interesting. Appealing in an old, romantic way from days when men's hair was a
show of their strength, masculinity, and good health. Samson hair.
None of this, however, was as interesting to
Lydia
as Mr. Cody's
fair eyes – though by the light of day and without a hat to shade them,
fair
was hardly the word. His eyes were a deep, dusty blue – the color of the sky
before rain, so blue they were almost purple. They stood out all the more
remarkably this morning against the swarthiness of his unshaven face, so
arresting against his dark hair she had to keep catching herself back from
staring. Half a dozen times, as they'd gotten ready, as he'd wrapped her ankle,
as he walked beside her now, he'd turned his head toward her, a quizzical look
– a raise of black eyebrows – and she'd glanced away, shaking her own head.
Nothing
.
Nothing except … he was appealing, beat up or not. How had she missed that at
the beginning?
Ah, she realized, perhaps she
hadn't
. She recalled the feel
of him around her – behind her – the strange sense of … not embarrassment or
offense, but … pleasure.
She was still more or less occupied with this cataloging of the
strange American's finer physical qualities – watching his trousered legs
stride off long paces beside her – when she noticed the mist bundling into low,
rolling ground fog. It wisped about her skirt. It kicked in slow-moving eddies
at his legs, his boots, her own hems barely visible at a ghostly ground. It was
eerie. It was beautiful.
It was also more difficult going. Unable to see the larger rocks
or smaller bushes in their path till they were right on top of them, she and
Mr. Cody had to slow their progress.
Five minutes later, they stopped simultaneously, frowning up into
a low ceiling of clouds – low enough, it seemed, that if she had stood on his
shoulders, she could have touched them.
Lydia
searched
overhead for the bright spot above their horizontal line of vision that had
just minutes ago guided them.
"Can you tell where the sun is?" she asked.
"Over there, I thought, but I—" He made a pull of his
mouth. "But I'm not sure now." He sighed. "I think we've lost
it."
The smell of the air had changed. A damp earthy odor, like loamy
soil after rain, floated on the coolness. Meanwhile, the fog moved in solidly,
visibly, like a billowing, slow-motion tide along the ground.
She should have been worried, even frightened, to see the fog roll
in – closing off the world around them – yet it was so fascinating and purely
lovely.
Lydia
opened her
arms and rotated slowly, watching the white air gather as if the ground
breathed cool winter breath. It rolled around her where it encompassed her
skirts from her hips downward. She lifted her foot and knew she wiggled it at
the ankle yet saw no sign of her own foot. She looked over her shoulder at Mr.
Cody. "Isn't this an amazing place?"