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As if she’d heard his thought, she suddenly straightened. “Oh, goodness! They’ll be back from their walk soon.”
“Who?” he demanded, loath to give up his handfuls of breast.
“Your sister and the children,” she said impatiently.
She wriggled again and his limp cock slipped rather ignominiously from her sheath. He sighed. Not right now, then. He bent and gave each breast a farewell kiss and then straightened and rapidly buttoned his breeches. When he finished, Helen was still trying to dress without much success.
“Let me,” he said, and gently nudged aside her fingers from her stays. He laced her, hiding those magnificent breasts, and then helped her don the rest of her clothes, all the while considering how to phrase the demand.
He smoothed the fichu at her bosom and inhaled. “Helen—”
“Where are my shoes?” She suddenly bent, searching under his table. “Do you see them?”
“Here.” He fished them out of his coat pockets where he’d absently stowed them before. “Helen—”
“Oh, thank you!” She sat in his chair to slip them on.
He frowned down at her impatiently. “Helen—”
“Does my hair look all right?”
“Lovely.”
“You’re not looking.”
“Yes, I am!” The words came out a good deal more forcefully than he’d meant. He closed his eye, damning himself for a fool. When he looked up, she was staring at him inquisitively.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he ground out, and then took a deep breath. “Helen, I want to see you again.”
Her brows knit as if in faint confusion. “Well, of course we’ll see each other again. I do live here, you know.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh.” Her harebell-blue eyes widened, and he briefly considered just taking her again on the table, good manners be damned. He didn’t have trouble communicating with her when they made love. “Ohhh.”
He suppressed his impatience. “Well?”
She took a step toward him until her breasts—those sweet breasts!—nearly touched his chest. Her face was still a little flushed, very prettily pink, and her eyes sparkled. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him chastely on the mouth, but when he moved to deepen the embrace, she darted away.
She walked to the tower door and paused to look back at him over her shoulder. “Perhaps later this evening?” She slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her.
“BUT I DON’T like fish,” Jamie said as they trudged home from their ramble with Miss McDonald and Miss Munroe. “I don’t see why we should have it for supper.”
“Because otherwise it’s a waste to catch them,” Abigail said. She was out of breath, because Puddles had decided to stop walking and now she and Jamie took turns carrying him. “If we didn’t eat the fish, it’d be a sin.”
“But I didn’t catch them!” Jamie objected.
“Sad, isn’t it?” Miss McDonald said cheerfully. “How one is doomed to eat the catch even when one is completely innocent of the fishing?”
“Phoebe,” Miss Munroe grunted, “you’re demonstrating the wrong attitude.”
“Personally,” Miss McDonald whispered loudly to Jamie, “I make sure to fill up on bread and soup. Can’t stand fish myself.”
“Phoebe!”
“Now if only they could learn to hook a good Yorkshire pudding, I’d be quite content to dine on the catch,” Miss McDonald mused.
