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He still kept his head down as he took the remaining few steps, then bent down and opened a built in wooden cabinet at the end of the bed. He pulled out several pairs of pants, then looked at her and shook his head. She could see why. They were sized to accommodate his strong, muscular thighs and she could probably get her entire body in a single leg.
“Maybe some cloth, or a towel, instead? I could make a kind of skirt.”
“That I have.”
This time he retrieved several lengths of cloth and handed them to her. Like the sheet they appeared to be woven but they were soft against her skin. The colors were subtle - a mélange of green and another one of golds, while the third had a subtle leaf-like pattern.
“This one, I think.” She stroked the leaf design. “It’s so soft.”
“Not as soft as your skin,” he said, then looked appalled. “Please forgive me. I just mean that I noticed when I removed your pants. I mean when I was carrying you. I mean-”
“It’s all right.” She smiled at him as she interrupted the rush of words, his obvious discomfort easing her own nerves. “I didn’t think you were trying to feel me up. So to speak. And thank you again for helping me.”
He returned her smile and oh, God, his face transformed. His eyes lit up, glowing that deep luminous green, his cheekbones seemed more defined, and his generous mouth lifted, the curve of his lips both gentle and incredibly sensual. It was like seeing a tree in the midst of springtime, everything lush and green and beautiful.
“Let me help you with that,” he said and she realized she was still clutching the fabric to her chest. “How much do you need?”
“Maybe enough to go around me twice?” She put her hands on her hips, then raised them, trying to keep them the same distance apart. “So four times this?”
“You are so small,” he said, his eyes lingering on her hips, and she blushed.
“I’ve always been thin, even though I wanted to be curvy like my mother.”
Before she became ill. Sadness washed over her and he tilted his head, studying her face.
“Those men. They said… Your mother is no longer of this earth?”
“No, she died last spring.”
Sometimes it felt like an eternity; others as if it had only happened yesterday.
“My mother died in the spring as well, but much
“My mother died in the spring as well, but much longer ago. Fifteen years.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
So young. Her heart aching for him, she reached out and put a tentative hand on his arm. His skin was rougher there, but not unpleasantly so and she found herself stroking the taut muscles.
“I’m so sorry. Who did you live with then?”
He didn’t seem to hear her at first, his eyes watching her hand, but then he shook his head and looked up.
“No one. I came here.”
“By yourself?” She gave him a horrified look. “You were just a child.”
He shrugged and rose, taking the piece of fabric with him.
“Old enough. She’d been teaching me how to live in the swamp for as long as I could remember.”
“What about your father? Didn’t he try and stop you?”
“I don’t know who he was.” He pulled a knife out of a rack and cut the fabric where she’d indicated as he continued, his voice completely neutral. “My mother was what I believe you would call a dryad and she was very beautiful. She was… attacked and I was the result. Dryads almost never have sons, especially not half-human ones. She could have considered me an abomination. Instead she loved me.”
Tears had sprung to her eyes as he talked, but her tears wouldn’t help me. Instead she did her best to smile.
