“Coo,” they both said in unison. “Are you?”
He smiled, and waggled the disattached stone leg at them. “That would be telling. This way?”
“Aye, to the left.”
Gregory strolled off with apparent nonchalance, but in reality he was careful to avoid meeting people. He wasn’t afraid of being caught, but he didn’t need the complication that extricating himself—and possibly Gwen—from another sticky situation would involve. Luckily, the sun had long since gone down, and now the night air was soft with insect noise and the distant sound of people singing severely out of tune. No doubt there was a camp sing-along or some such thing. He just hoped that Gwen hadn’t felt the need to join in.
“And you would be Seith, I assume.” Gregory examined the boy who sat with his back against one of the tent poles. He was wrapped in a blanket and looked very sleepy. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I’m a squire. Dad said that I was to attend to Lady Gwen’s every need, and that if I didn’t, he’d send me back to my mum.”
“Is that bad?”
The lad sighed a heartfelt sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. “Aye. She’s wed again, and my new father doesn’t like me. My real father doesn’t like me much, either. No one does.”
Gregory tried not to let his amusement show at the expression that the boy now adopted: part martyr, part drama queen, he was the picture of noble misery. “Just out of curiosity, how old are you?”
“Thirteen. Dad says I’m runty for my age.” If possible, he looked even more miserable.
Gregory nodded toward Ethan’s camp. “If you’re up for some angsty poetry, I know someone who’d buy it off you. Take yourself off and get some sleep.”
“I can’t,” the boy said, yawning. “I have to guard Lady Gwen.”
“I’ll guard her for the night. You won’t be of any service to her tomorrow if you are too tired to stay awake. Go find your bed.”
The boy got slowly to his feet, hope visible in his tired face. “You’ll stay here all night? You swear?”
“I swear. She won’t suffer any harm while I’m around.”
“Thank you,” Seith said, and made him an awkward bow. Gregory donned a charming smile for a third time that day and entered Gwen’s tent. He would dazzle her with the smile first, then show her the deer statue and recount how far he’d gotten with Aaron’s tasks, finally giving in to the lustful thoughts that had tormented him all day and sex her up like she’d never been sexed up before.
She was naked.
He stopped dead, the broken leg and antler falling to the soft carpets that lay underfoot. He barely managed to hold on to the deer itself as Gwen, her hair caught up in a ribbon and tied at the top of her head, sat in a metal bathtub draped with a white linen cloth. She turned to look at him, her face damp and rosy, her flesh slick with the bathwater.
The scent of flowers hit him then, of sun-warmed flowers, and warmer woman. His woman. The one who set his blood alight with want and need and a desire so great, he knew he was going to have trouble walking the few steps it took to get to her side.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, relaxing after a startled moment. She gave him a slow, sultry smile that seared a path from his brain to his groin. “I wondered if you’d find me.”
He shed articles of clothing with each (painful) step. By the time he reached the side of the tub, he was naked. Her eyes widened as he held out his hand for her.
“Up,” was all he could manage to get out.
“I wasn’t finished—”
“Up!”
She took his hand with a little frown, obviously about to tell him that she didn’t appreciate being bossed around. He stepped into the tub before she could leave it, sat down, and pulled her down onto his legs.
“Oof!” she said in a delighted tone, then scrunched up her adorable nose and added. “Leg cramp!”
He scooted forward, adjusting her on his thighs so that her legs wrapped around his hips. “Better?”
“Much. Do you have a thing about making love in the water?”
“Not particularly. It just seemed like too good of an opportunity to miss. Plus, I’m covered in dog hair.”
“Unfortunately, the water will be cold soon, and it has to be brought in by buckets.”
“The temperature of the water matters little to me.” He surveyed her as she perched on his legs, unable to decide where to start. Her glorious breasts, so temptingly close right there in front of his face? Her belly, all soft and satiny? Her hips? Her legs? The sensitive inner depths of what he was coming to think of as his own nirvana? “I will start at the top and work down,” he decided.
“Chest!” she squealed, and flung herself forward on him so that she could swirl her tongue around his nipple even as he attempted to do the same thing to her. Their heads collided with an audible clunk.
“Ow!” they both said in unison. Gwen rubbed her forehead while Gregory, with a manly disregard of minor pain, took the opportunity to access the breasts that bobbed so enticingly in front of him.
“I love your breasts,” he murmured against her, his hands wonderfully full of them. They were warm and slick and he couldn’t resist tasting first one, then the other. They were both so perfect, so delightful, he didn’t know which one he liked more. In the end he pushed them together, and buried his face in their magnificence, tasting, nibbling, and teasing them as Gwen laughed.
“I guess that proves you’re a breast man.”
He looked up from the wonderful land of her bosom, and smiled. “When it concerns you I am. And a derriere man. And a leg man. I’m a Gwen man, pure and simple.”
“All right, you’ve had enough time, Gwen man. I get my turn with your chest.”
“I’m not done taking my turn yet. I have your belly and hips and legs and nirvana to explore first.”
“Nirvana?” She laughed again. He applauded the effect such an act had on her breasts. “That’s a new name for it. Didn’t your mother ever teach you to take turns?”
“Yes. But my father taught me it was important to complete a job once it was started. Slide back a little if you will . . .”
Gwen obliged, but Gregory soon came to the conclusion that the tub was just too limiting. It didn’t allow him to explore her the way he intended.
“Up,” he said again.
“I wondered if you’d figure that out.” She got out of the tub, grabbing a towel to briskly dry herself. “Oh, no,” she said when he reached for the towel. “I get to do this. It’s my turn whether you like it or not.”
He stood patiently while she patted him down with the towel, gritting his teeth when her fingers trailed the rough material of the towel. He would never last if he gave in to thoughts of just what those magical fingertips were doing to him.
“Would you mind if I asked about this tattoo on your upper back? Not to be offensive, but it’s not what you normally see on a man. This is all . . . well, delicate. Like one of those scientific pictures of subatomic particle tracks.”
“It’s called a lightning flower, and it’s not a tattoo. All Travellers have one. It is a mark signifying who we are, and it is made by lightning.”
She traced one of the feathery lines, making him grit his teeth with determination.
“Huh. Interesting.”
He allowed her to continue while he dwelt with much detail on the effects of syphilis on the human body. When that didn’t distract him from the sensation of her mouth kissing a path down his spine, he thought of radiation poisoning, the bubonic plague, and flesh-eating bacteria, in that order.
“I must not be doing something right,” she said when the torment was at last over. “Because I thought by now you would be pouncing on me.”