Part 34 (2/2)
She slid into the chair across from him and propped her chin on her hands.
He poured a cup of coffee from a surprisingly fine porcelain pot and pushed it over to her.
”It will singe your eyebrows off.” His voice was still gravelly from sleep, and it affected her senses as surely as if his fingers had played with the short hairs on the nape of her neck.
He watched, waiting for her to taste it.
” votre sante.” She raised it in a toast, took a sip, and winced.
”Eh?” he said happily.
”Eh!” she approved, and took another bracing sip. ”It's marvelous. It's what I always imagined lava tasted like.”
”Turkish,” he said shortly. And smiled faintly.
She smiled at him. A pair of mauve shadows curved beneath his eyes, and she suspected she sported a matching set. Clearly neither of them had slept well, if at all. They had metaphorically set each other's bodies on fire and then gone their separate ways to smolder in their respective beds.
She wondered if he'd memorized his ceiling the way she'd memorized hers. She'd probably lost any weight she'd gained on this journey by tossing and turning violently.
But he'd been very right to stop that kiss last night.
”You look piratical,” she said. And dangerous. And appealing. And human. And vulnerable.
And the black whiskers made his eyes seem even bluer.
His eyes flared an instant at her choice of words. Which had not been idle.
He smiled swiftly and swiped a self-conscious hand over his chin. ”You look . . .”
His eyes finished the sentence for him.
If one could make love with a single look, he'd just done that.
He reached for a slice of fried bread and slid the plate over to her, along with a jar of marmalade. Her favorite.
”All the luxuries of home,” she said. Her voice was a little faint, after that look.
She seized the knife and spread the marmalade over the bread as if she were one of Genevieve's beloved painters.
He watched her, bemused.
She paused to admire her handiwork before she took a bite.
”Does it have to be completely covered?” He sounded fascinated.
”Yes,” she said easily.
He smiled at that.
They knew each other so well, but there were so many other things they didn't know, the homely humble things.
She bit into it. Heaven. Bread and marmalade had never tasted so marvelous.
When she finished chewing she said, ”I should like a bath.”
He paused mid-chew and studied her with faint surprise, then flicked a glance over her, as if to ascertain whether she was indeed dirty.
”I'm a woman,” she pointed out. ”The tolerance for sand in my various crevices is no doubt lower than your own.”
”Fair point.”
He watched approvingly as she tore into her bread again like a starved wolf. She'd never been this hungry in her life.
”I know just the place,” he said at last. Sounding mysterious.
”The place?”
”I haven't a bathtub yet, per se, and as you likely have noticed, no household staff to see to it if I did have one. You see, when it's just me and I want to thoroughly bathe, I . . .” And he gestured with his chin out the window.
”You aren't going to tell me to wade into the ocean!”
”I'm not going to tell you to do anything. You made it clear how you felt about that.” He said this with a sort of relish. ”I'll just show you.”
He took another bite of his own bread, then studied her face.
He put the bread down.
”You'll love it,” he said gently, and with total confidence. It was both irritating and hopelessly magnetic, as usual. As if she were a mare who spooked easily, and the whole point of his life was to lead her to things she loved.
”JONATHAN HAS HIS own investment group, you say?” he said suddenly. ”I've had my ways of staying abreast of the news, but I hadn't heard this bit.”
They had set out into the beautiful morning. He'd thrown a few things into a knapsack, cheese and bread and a little bottle of wine and a couple of rolled-up blankets, and he was swinging it in his hand and whistling some unidentifiable tune. It meandered so much she suspected it was his own invention, which made her smile.
That brilliant blue sky above them was the very color of happiness, as cheerful as a carnival canopy. The sun was gentle but brilliant, the air softly humid, and she wondered at the fact that she hadn't thought to bring a bonnet, or wear stockings. She'd seized her reticule, more out of habit than from necessity, though it contained a comb. How quickly she'd taken to becoming a heathen.
”And they say he'll be running for Parliament,” she reminded him. ”He's pa.s.sionate about child labor reform.”
Lyon shook his head in wonderment. ”There must have been a woman involved.”
”Why do you say that?”
”Because women are why we do anything.”
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