Page 31 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"Not yet." Eamon pointed to the plate. "At least eat the sausage, and the slice of cheese. You need strength. You have lost too much weight already, since your accident."
"You sound like my mother," I grumbled. " 'Eat more pastries, Katrina. Have another bit of chicken, Katrina. Try this tart, Katrina. Men like a nice round woman with curves.' "
"Hm." He gave me one of his charming half-smiles. "I would like you in any form, whether you were the most waifish wisp or the plumpest, rosy-cheeked matron."
The bite of sausage nearly fell from my mouth. "That is one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me. How did you manage it without hurting yourself?"
He threw a dishcloth at me, and I jerked backwards to avoid it, without thinking. "Ow!"
"Your back?"
I nodded. "Just a pinch of pain. Not bad."
"Maybe we should put off our walk for another day—"
"No! I'm fine. I am eating, see?" I crammed the food into my mouth. "I am ready to go."
"What was that? I couldn't hear you around all the cheese and sausage—"
I balled up the dishcloth and hurled it back at him. Eamon caught it easily. He had made me breakfast in all his glowing shirtless glory and I nearly choked at the wondrous flex of his muscles when he caught my missile.
"Good Lord in Heaven," I said, when I could breathe once more. "Are you trying to kill me?"
"Swearing again." He clucked his tongue. "You need to wear something when we go out. You cannot run about naked in the forest like some woodland nymph."
Slowly I rose from my seat on the bed, lifting my chin haughtily despite my blanket-clad state. "I am afraid, good sir, that the best I can manage at present is an unsteady toddle. There will be no nymph-like running today."
"I will help you to dress, then. Not in the tunic you were wearing, though—it smells rather rank."
"A shame you sliced my dress open," I said. "That was a favorite gown of mine."
"I had to act quickly to save your life," Eamon retorted. "And the blood would never have come out, anyway."
"True. But what shall I wear?"
"I have some extra clothes in a trunk—some old things of mine from when I was younger. If the moths have not gotten to them, we may find something there."
He fetched the trunk and rooted through it. The clothes were surprisingly dry and whole, though they smelled a bit musty. Eamon shook out a pair of dark trousers with a drawstring waist, and then a loose white shirt with laces at the neck. "These will do."
He surveyed me at first like a tailor judging the size of a client—but when I let the blanket fall, his gaze intensified, devouring every inch of me. Just being watched by him was enough to turn my legs weak. My skin tightened, thrilling, as he stalked nearer. But when he reached me, he only kissed my forehead and then knelt, holding out the trousers for me to step into. He pulled the pants up, tightening them at my waist and then rolling the cuffs to a manageable length. His fingers lingered over the fine bones of my feet and ankles, tracing them with a kind of delicate wonder. Hiding a smile, I pulled on the shirt and settled it over my shoulders. It fell well past my waist, and hung open wide in the front. I left it unlaced, for the express purpose of teasing the Horseman with the partial view of my breasts.
Eamon held out the shoes I had worn that night on the bridge, and I slid my feet into them. My heart ached, remembering how I danced with Ichabod in these very shoes. How lightly he stepped, how intensely focused he was. How proudly he smiled when the dance ended.
At least he had that one night of joy—before I dashed his hopes. Before he—
"You look sad," said the Horseman. His brows drew together as he examined my face. "Does the clothing not suit? I think you look lovely in it."
"The clothes are fine." I smiled for him. "I am ready."
He paced behind me down the hall before sidling ahead to swing open the door. Clear sunlight, the kind that only comes on a crisp autumn day, washed into the hallway and over me. I put up my hand to shield my eyes as I edged into its faint warmth.
"It is chillier than I thought," said Eamon. "I will fetch you a blanket." He dodged back inside, while I moved out of the cabin.
Even from the inside, I had thought the cabin an oddly shaped structure, with its long hallway, like a stretched-out pantry, and the one big room. Eamon had apparently fetched the trunk of clothes from a back room, possibly a bedroom at one time, now used for storage. Now that I stood outside, I could see that the cabin's exterior was rough, but well-maintained—the logs were dry and solid, the chinking had been carefully mended to protect the interior from winter's cold. The roof appeared to be in good repair, with deep eaves to prevent rain from puddling right against the walls.
The cabin sat atop a grassy knoll, in a clearing bordered by flamboyant scarlet maples, aspens with their fluttering orange leaves, and oaks with foliage of rich amber or blood-red. Here and there, a hornbeam or beech tree shimmered golden-bronze or bright yellow. And the sky arched over it all, a joyful sweep of sun-bright blue and creamy clouds, like fluffy blobs of frosting. The scent of the world this morning was freshness incarnate, with the sweet tang of coming frost tickling my nostrils. The breeze teased the billowy sleeves of my borrowed shirt and tossed my hair around my shoulders.
I wanted to scream from sheer exuberance. I wanted to embrace the entire scene, absorb it into myself so I could carry the beauty of it with me always.
