firmly, and stood up, and pulled her to her feet.
12
She opened her eyes blearily, to a
faint, pearly dawn.
In the first
grey light, the kitchens looked like a family crypt, which thought made her
shudder: long, rough-planed wood boxes stacked along the walls, like coffins.
She hadn’t seen those, in the dark. (She might have barked her shin on one, in
the dark, and used intemperate language, mind.)
She’d not
expected to sleep, but she had been so tired that she had. Wrapped in each
other’s arms, rolled in two wet cloaks in front of a black-empty hearth, with a
saddle for a pillow, but she had slept, in the end.
She’d felt him
get up, in the hours before dawn, and go somewhere. And that hadn’t given her
pause, save that there was a chilly patch all along her flank where he’d lain,
because – well, it might not be romantic to pee but you did, you had to,
especially when it was cold, or there was the musical sound of water running in
the gutters outside as the rain came down.
And after that
he’d come back to bed, and it had given her a good deal of drowsy pleasure to
wiggle her bum in his lap until he put his arms round her middle and held her
tight and beloved.
He’d been
outside, she could smell it on him. She had turned round in his arms and
snuffed him like a dog and kissed him, just at the angle of his bristly jaw.
And his bristles had tickled her at that tender place where her neck joined her
shoulder, where he had returned the favour, and – all in all Thomazine was
stiff, and sore, but feeling unreasonably well-disposed towards the world, this
morning.
She looked down
at her new husband. He looked different, in sleep. (He looked like a man who'd
rolled himself up in most of the cloak as soon as she'd stood up, and she hoped that wasn't going to become a habit, either.) Flat on his back with his
hair in his eyes, and the collar of the cloak pulled right up to his chin, and
he snored. Only a little bit, and it was rather sweet, but he did.
There was also
not a stitch of clothing on the man, and it would be full daylight soon, and
she couldn't help but giggle out loud, because she was only wearing a shift
herself, and it was just downright wicked of both of them.
She leaned over
and pulled the cloak up over his bare shoulder, more for the excuse of touching
his bare skin than anything else.
"Thomazine,"
he said sleepily, and she sat upright with a squeak. "That tickles,
tibber, what're you doing?"
She didn't have
an answer, other than to blush, and he rolled over and peered up at her through
his tousled hair. "Idle fornication, mistress?" he said, sounding
suddenly much more awake.
- and it was
very difficult to tell with her husband, even for Thomazine, because the
scarring on his cheek had faded over the years, but that austere expression was
still more or less perpetual. Unless you could see his eyes, and since they
were presently hidden by a fall of loose mousy-brown hair, she couldn't, quite,
tell if he approved or not.
Then he slid his arm round her waist, drawing her back down under the cloak.
"I'm game if you are, gal."
Afterwards, she
lay with her head on his shoulder, and her hair trapped under his arm, and she
was comfortable. Happy, actually, with his heart beating against hers, and his
hand on the curve of her hip, idly moving up and down. Felt a little bit odd,
her skin against his, and the roughness of the cloak against both of them, but
it was nice. Reassuring.
"We ought
to put some clothes on, you know," he said, and kissed the top of her
head.
"Reckon
so," she agreed, and kissed the bit of him that was nearest.
"Depraved,
that's what we are."
"No
arguments from this quarter, then."
She felt him
laugh, rather than heard it. "D'you want some breakfast, then, my
tibber?"
"What -
why, Thankful, you're enjoying this!"
"I am not,
either!" Though he did sound suspiciously pleased with himself. "I
was not a supply officer for the better part of twenty years without
12
She opened her eyes blearily, to a
faint, pearly dawn.
In the first
grey light, the kitchens looked like a family crypt, which thought made her
shudder: long, rough-planed wood boxes stacked along the walls, like coffins.
She hadn’t seen those, in the dark. (She might have barked her shin on one, in
the dark, and used intemperate language, mind.)
She’d not
expected to sleep, but she had been so tired that she had. Wrapped in each
other’s arms, rolled in two wet cloaks in front of a black-empty hearth, with a
saddle for a pillow, but she had slept, in the end.
She’d felt him
get up, in the hours before dawn, and go somewhere. And that hadn’t given her
pause, save that there was a chilly patch all along her flank where he’d lain,
because – well, it might not be romantic to pee but you did, you had to,
especially when it was cold, or there was the musical sound of water running in
the gutters outside as the rain came down.
And after that
he’d come back to bed, and it had given her a good deal of drowsy pleasure to
wiggle her bum in his lap until he put his arms round her middle and held her
tight and beloved.
He’d been
outside, she could smell it on him. She had turned round in his arms and
snuffed him like a dog and kissed him, just at the angle of his bristly jaw.
And his bristles had tickled her at that tender place where her neck joined her
shoulder, where he had returned the favour, and – all in all Thomazine was
stiff, and sore, but feeling unreasonably well-disposed towards the world, this
morning.
She looked down
at her new husband. He looked different, in sleep. (He looked like a man who'd
rolled himself up in most of the cloak as soon as she'd stood up, and she hoped that wasn't going to become a habit, either.) Flat on his back with his
hair in his eyes, and the collar of the cloak pulled right up to his chin, and
he snored. Only a little bit, and it was rather sweet, but he did.
There was also
not a stitch of clothing on the man, and it would be full daylight soon, and
she couldn't help but giggle out loud, because she was only wearing a shift
herself, and it was just downright wicked of both of them.
She leaned over
and pulled the cloak up over his bare shoulder, more for the excuse of touching
his bare skin than anything else.
"Thomazine,"
he said sleepily, and she sat upright with a squeak. "That tickles,
tibber, what're you doing?"
She didn't have
an answer, other than to blush, and he rolled over and peered up at her through
his tousled hair. "Idle fornication, mistress?" he said, sounding
suddenly much more awake.
- and it was
very difficult to tell with her husband, even for Thomazine, because the
scarring on his cheek had faded over the years, but that austere expression was
still more or less perpetual. Unless you could see his eyes, and since they
were presently hidden by a fall of loose mousy-brown hair, she couldn't, quite,
tell if he approved or not.
Then he slid his arm round her waist, drawing her back down under the cloak.
"I'm game if you are, gal."
Afterwards, she
lay with her head on his shoulder, and her hair trapped under his arm, and she
was comfortable. Happy, actually, with his heart beating against hers, and his
hand on the curve of her hip, idly moving up and down. Felt a little bit odd,
her skin against his, and the roughness of the cloak against both of them, but
it was nice. Reassuring.
"We ought
to put some clothes on, you know," he said, and kissed the top of her
head.
"Reckon
so," she agreed, and kissed the bit of him that was nearest.
"Depraved,
that's what we are."
"No
arguments from this quarter, then."
She felt him
laugh, rather than heard it. "D'you want some breakfast, then, my
tibber?"
"What -
why, Thankful, you're enjoying this!"
"I am not,
either!" Though he did sound suspiciously pleased with himself. "I
was not a supply officer for the better part of twenty years without
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