“You have?” She hadn’t really taken much notice.
“Yes, I have half a dozen now, safely locked in the wagon, not to mention these.” He patted the canvas holdall.
It seemed odd that so many people had old paintings they wished to have replaced, but Zoë didn’t question it. Reynard obviously knew his market. He’d been doing this for quite some time, whereas until she’d met him, she had only ever painted people she knew, friends who could afford to have new frames specially made for their paintings. Poor people let nothing go to waste and reused everything.
In any case, her mind was not on work at the moment. Tonight she was going to invite Reynard to her bed. Earlier she’d bathed in the stream—she was almost down to the last of Clarissa’s lovely soap—and washed her hair. The dinner was a chicken and vegetable stew, warming by the fire, and she’d opened a bottle of wine.
Her nerves were jumpy, skittering from one thought to another and back, but in a different part of her brain, deep down, she was calm. She’d made up her mind. Tonight she would invite Reynard into the wagon.
Soon she would have to return to London, leave this life and do her duty in England, but she would have this, another week with Reynard, a time to look back on and remember, something to keep her warm through cold English nights and possibly a cold English marriage. Something just for her, done without any feeling of obligation, just joy, her own private and personal joy.
She sat by the fire as he put the contents of the holdall in the large cupboard in the wagon and packed his painting things away. When he emerged, he stopped and gave her a long, thoughtful look.
“Is everything all right? You seem a little…distraite.”
She felt herself blushing. “No, I’m fine. I, er, I bathed in the stream and washed my hair.” She groaned to herself. Why did she have to tell him that?
He nodded and gave her a slow, intimate smile. “Then I suppose I should do the same.” He reached into the wagon, pulled out soap, a towel and some fresh clothes. “Be back shortly. Keep an eye on that stew, will you?” A short time later she could hear splashing.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Soon; it would be soon, she hoped.
Hamish, who hadn’t followed him to the stream, sniffed hopefully at the pot with the stew in it. “No, Hamish, not for you, sweetheart,” she told him, and placed the lid on the pot. He gave a lugubrious sigh and slumped dolefully to the ground. A moment later he sat up with his ears pricked and bounded away into the scrub. His dinner sorted.
Zoë moved the pot away from the fire. As if she could think of stew, knowing Reynard was a few yards away, naked in the stream. She sat, poking sticks into the fire, stirring sparks and wondering how she was going to say it.
“Dear Reynard, would you like to go to bed with me?” No, too blunt.
What about “I’ve noticed that the nights have been getting colder”? No, too much like farmer talk, discussing the weather.
What about “Reynard, I like you very much and I think we should—”
“Yeeeks!” she squeaked as two hands dropped lightly on her shoulders from behind, shattering her silent reverie.
“Sorry,” he said, laughing. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”
“You startled me, that’s all. I was miles away.” The warmth from his hands soaked into her.
“So I see.” He crouched down behind her, his hands still on her shoulders, and buried his nose in her hair. “Mm, your hair smells delicious. I did bathe, but I fear I won’t be able to match that.” He lifted her hair and feathered kisses along her nape, and she found herself arching back against him as tiny shivers of heat ran through her
“I did, however, manage a kind of shave, though without hot water, it’s not very good.”
She turned her head and looked back at him. “I don’t mind,” she said softly, and lightly rubbed her palm along his jawline, enjoying the faint texture of his bristles, the freshness of his skin. His hair smelled clean and damp. He rose, and she rose with him, turned in the circle of his arms and raised her face to his.
Chapter Seven
His eyes darkened, the flames of the fire reflected in them.
“Reynard,” she whispered. He didn’t move. Nervously she ran her tongue over her dry lips.
He made a sound, low in his throat, and cupped her cheek in his hand. His hand was strong, the skin firm and masculine, and she rubbed her cheek against his palm like a cat. His eyes were burning. She raised her face to him in mute invitation. He muttered something she didn’t catch, but she forgot everything as he drew her close and claimed her mouth with his.
The kiss was sweet and tender at first, a quiet exploration. He pulled back slightly then and looked at her. “You know where this is going, don’t you?”
She nodded, and pressed herself closer.
He resisted for a moment, then smoothed his thumb lightly in a gossamer caress over her lower lip. Her breath hitched. “Are you sure, Vita? Because if we go on like this, it won’t stop at kissing.” Her blood leapt at his words.
“Very sure.” And she was. She’d been thinking about this for days, wanting it, dreaming of it. And now that one brief kiss had made her hungry for more, she didn’t want to wait a minute longer. Her body was tingling, expectant. She stood on tiptoe, pulled his head down and kissed him.
