“Shall we… walk?” she offered.
He nodded gratefully, as though it had been her suggestion. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
And so they went. Christian did not talk. He did not even look at her, and when she drew close enough to feel the warmth of his body in the October chill, he walked faster, his long legs outpacing her shorter ones.
She tried not to feel hurt by the way he pulled away. He had, after all, liked the buns—had he not? She thought he had liked them.
They had been walking for perhaps a quarter of an hour in what appeared to be a rather large circle—at least, Matildahopedit was a circle, as she’d left her pelisse by the waterfall—when they heard a low cry in the woods ahead of them.
Matilda bit her lip and looked up at Christian. “Did you hear that?”
He was frowning. “I did. Stay back.”
She pursed her lips. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Surely you do not—”
He caught her elbow in his hand, not hard, but decisively. Matilda felt a little shiver run through her at the gesture—its restrained possessiveness, its care and dominance at once.
“Stay behind me, at least,” he growled down at her, and, heaven help her, she listened.
Always she preferred to be in charge of her own life—to push back against what was expected of her. Yet there was pleasure too in the choice to submit to this man. In letting his will master her and free her at the same time. In letting go of the control she exercised over herself and her own foolish heart.
He moved forward in the direction of the cry they had heard, Matilda trailing just behind.
And then they heard it again, and a third time, and—
Oh. Matilda felt heat rise in her cheeks. Someone was crying out, to be sure, but not in a way that suggested any sort of danger.
Perhaps they were in danger of getting tupped straight over the edge of the waterfall, but that seemed about the worst of it.
She caught Christian’s arm. “I don’t think they have need of us,” she murmured. Truly, coming upon a couple mid-coitus would not be conducive to the distance he seemed intent upon putting between the two of them after the wine-and-licking situation.
She was not sure if he had heeded her words, but then he came to a stop so abruptly she nearly crashed into his back. She peeked round him.
Ah yes. That was why he had stopped. Though the sight was half-shielded by a grove of trees, one could nonetheless make out a man and woman engaged in a vigorous… bout… of…
Matilda’s mouth fell open, and then she grabbed Christian’s hand and dragged him in the other direction.
“Oh my God,” she gasped. “Oh my God!”
They were two dozen yards away before she let herself slow down and look up into Christian’s startled gray eyes.
“Was that—” he began, and then stopped.
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Oh my God. I shall never recover.”
“Itwasthen—”
“Yes,” she groaned. “Oh God. My sister.”
Christian did not know what to do with Matilda.
He could not tell if she was actually upset. She was flinging her hands about in a way that suggested intense perturbation, and he kept hearing half-broken-off mumbles of “scarred for life” and “pluck out my eyes.”
But when he tried to murmur something wordless and soothing, she’d given him the most comprehensive glare he’d ever seen from her sweet blue eyes and stalked away from him.
“I don’t understand,” she said, throwing her hands up for at least the third time. “What are theydoinghere?”
“I believe I’ve seen what they were doing in a certain pamphlet.”
